


Throw Your Heart To Me

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Camboy!Zayn, Cybersex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Just Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Theirs was a love story told all out of order, but Harry couldn’t help but think it was the best one he’d ever heard.”<br/>Harry stumbles upon a very popular camboy and finds himself asking for a private show. And that’s just the start of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throw Your Heart To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuckinabottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinabottle/gifts).



> Stuckinabottle, I took your camboy prompt and kind of ran away with it. It’s not entirely what you asked for, but I hope you find something in here that you can enjoy.  
> Thank you to my betas and Britpicker for being such amazing sounding boards during this process. And thank you, as well, to the Zarry Fic Exchange mod for being so helpful, understanding, and patient!  
> I did a fair amount of research into cam models and adult entertainers in order to fill this prompt, but I want to state that this is a complete work of fiction. I have no personal experience with sex work and used my imagination when I encountered gaps in my research.  
> Title from “Eyes Shut” by Years & Years.

It was a wet, drizzling, and miserable Thursday afternoon, but one would never know it by the way Harry Styles had been smiling all day. He only had one class that morning and his roommates weren’t due back for another few hours, so he grabbed a smoothie and rushed back to his flat in Camden after he finished up on campus for the day. Instead of completing his Cities and Social Change paper or heading to the pub to enjoy a quick lunch, Harry powered on his laptop and anxiously waited for The King’s web stream to load.

It wasn’t exactly how Harry had planned to spend his precious free time during his final year at uni. Harry certainly never imagined himself as the type to schedule his life around a webcam model. But here Harry was, pulling up the familiar bookmark and puttering around the flat grabbing snacks as he waited for The King to come on screen.

The King was, as far as Harry could tell, one of the hardest working cam boys in the business. Harry looked into him — followed him on Twitter and Tumblr, actually — and the King had received numerous adult entertainment awards and nominations for his work, and his shows attracted a swarm of visitors. And The King wasn’t the type to just masturbate for five minutes and leave, although Harry was sure he could if he wanted to. The guy had a reputation for being an intellectual, and every week he asked viewers to recommend a book for him to read, and he’d review the novel in question and hold a sort of book club discussion while simultaneously fucking himself with a dildo.

Harry would never admit it — had never even talked about watching The King out loud — but those were his favorite shows. They were also held every Thursday. 

Harry had just finished assembling his plate of carrots, hummus, and a boiled egg when he heard a familiar “Hello!” drawl from the other end of the flat. Harry snatched his plate and the remainder of his smoothie before darting over to his sofa, cracking the hard shell of the egg as The King sat back on his own bed, thousands of kilometers away, and began his show.

 

Harry had stumbled onto The King’s webcam almost by accident. He’d been drunk and had spent about an hour thinking about ways he could make more money in his spare time. He was more than a little curious about how the whole cam boy thing worked, so he’d looked on Reddit and read a few testimonials, but they were all from models that identified as female. Harry had poked around a little bit more, dove deeper into the strange recesses of the internet, and then there he was. An Adonis of a man, with tanned skin and honey colored eyes, extremely distinctive tattoos, and a body seemingly sculpted for sin. He called himself The King and it didn’t even seem cocky — Harry actually felt as though the moniker was entirely appropriate. 

Harry had then checked The King’s website, saw that he had a show coming up that very night, and Harry figured it would be no big deal to sit around and wait for The King to make his appearance on screen. Harry had already killed three hours looking into camming — why not spend another hour or so experiencing this modern internet phenomenon firsthand?

Harry expected that he’d be somewhat repulsed by the whole thing. Paying to watch someone perform sexual acts had always raised all sorts of deep philosophical and ethical questions that Harry didn’t much like thinking about, but The King — well. He was just really, _really_ nice. Sweet. Harry was surprised to discover that The King was a Brit who had relocated to the States, and he started off the show wearing a snapback and a red vest, grinning wolfishly at the camera and talking about _Breaking Bad_ and how glad he was to have found the time to catch up on his favorite comics. Harry was also pleasantly startled to discover that the viewers were engaging The King on these points, too, asking him inane questions about his creative writing classes and what the weather was like in California, although there was also one viewer who repeatedly requested that The King slather himself in sour cream.

Thankfully, The King did not get nude and cover his body in dairy products. If that were the case, Harry probably still wouldn’t be enthralled with The King today. Instead, The King continued talking about _The Avengers_ , some stuff about Marvel and a comic book arc that Harry couldn’t entirely follow, occasionally interrupting himself to take off an item of clothing. First the snapback. Then the shirt. And then he stood up in his joggers, his thick cock already tenting through the flimsy material. 

“You’ve got to pay to keep playing, loves,” The King had smirked. And Harry hardly even thought about it — just grabbed his wallet, created an account, and entered in his credit card information like it wasn’t anything. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. 

The King returned to his seat and kept chatting, but he also kept removing clothing. He stood, teasing the joggers where they sat low on his hips, and pulled them off in a flourish, leaving himself in a bright red jockstrap that left very little to the imagination. And then the pants were gone, too, and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from the long, lean lines of The King’s body, the smooth honey of his skin, the thick curvature of his cock. 

Harry felt helpless, entirely mesmerized by this beautiful boy with a Northern accent and a drawer full of sex toys. It wasn’t even that The King was gorgeous and was getting himself off for money — although certainly that was a big part of it, the sheer naughtiness of the situation — but Harry also loved hearing this guy talk. He was simultaneously soft and sure of himself, confident and approachable. He was a net of complexities that Harry wanted to sit and untangle with his long, clumsy fingers. 

And hell, looking back on it, Harry _was_ helpless to The King’s draw. Utterly, stupidly, entirely helpless.

 

The King’s chat was always a bit of a clusterfuck, with requests ranging from the benign to the downright strange. This Thursday’s show seemed to border more on the latter:

 

“U should dress up like a sexy Godzilla”

“Wnt to tip but I’m savin up for Bible Camp =(”

“Can we play house? I play Mommy and u play baby”

“Wanna put sour cream on your dick and lick it off”

 

“Fucking sour cream guy,” Harry mumbled to himself, wondering what it was about sour cream that really got this dude going and how the man had managed to dodge a ban from the chat for this long. But then The King was laughing, his eyes scrunching up at the corners.

“You want me to bring Veronica back, Tommo?” The King was asking. “Really? I mean — I definitely could. Does anyone else here remember her?”

The chat section flooded with commentary, Harry’s eyes bulging as he attempted to digest the rapid stream of text. Everything seemed positive, a veritable clamor for this Veronica, but there were a few, like Harry, who clearly didn’t know who this person was.

“You can see pictures of Veronica on my Instagram,” The King continued, drumming his fingers on his desk. “I could get her, too.” The King smirked, quirking an eyebrow. “It’ll cost you, though.”

That did not seem to be much of a deterrent for the other viewers. There were pings alerting the arrival of tips, and The King grinned as the money began to roll in. Harry put in his customary £15 so he wouldn’t get kicked out of the show, but confusion was slowly spreading through his body. Who was Veronica? Harry had been pretty sure that girls weren’t allowed on this particular cam site. That didn’t mean The King couldn’t bring a woman on — he just might get in trouble for it later. Or maybe he wouldn’t? The King was the biggest model on the site by leaps and bounds, and for good reason. He could probably do whatever the fuck he wanted so long as the site still got its cut. 

“Thank you so much, boys,” The King said, leaning back in his seat and adjusting his snapback. “What do you think Veronica should wear?”

“Laker’s jersey!” came one request.

“That cheerleading outfit from last Halloween,” was another.

“SOUR CREAM!” 

Harry sighed, wondering if sour cream guy would ever get his wish, but also sincerely hoping that he never did.

“I like the basketball jersey idea,” The King said, standing up from his desk. He tilted his camera back, smiling satisfactorily, and then walked across the room to his tiny closet. “Veronica doesn’t own any Laker’s ones — I’m sorry about that, love. But what about The Heat? And maybe some red pumps and black knickers?”

The chat box exploded again with more positive affirmations and the ping of tips. As Harry scanned the comments, the pieces started to fall into place. 

 

“You’ll look so fucking hot with your dick poking out of those panties”

“Always missed ur Veronica shows. Tommo is a SAINT for suggesting it!”

“Give us a real show!!!”

 

The King was Veronica. And if the excited comments were anything to go by, Harry was in for a real treat.

The King pulled out a black basketball jersey before rummaging along the bottom of his closet, emerging with a pair of red, sky high heels. The King draped his clothes over the side of the bed and made his way back over to the camera, tilting it back down slightly.

“If I run into the bathroom will you all stick around?” The King asked nervously. “It’ll take like two minutes. Veronica just needs to throw her clothes on and get her hair ready, yeah?”

The King’s eyes flickered across the screen, clearly processing the lines of text.

“Awesome, boys. Okay. I’m really glad I shaved my face today.” The King chuckled, smiling his usual megawatt grin. “Two minutes! You can time me. Be right back.”

And then The King grabbed his clothes and left the room.

Harry peeled a banana and skimmed the chat box while he waited. People were lauding the guy who had suggested the Veronica thing, a regular with a ridiculous username that everyone just referred to as Tommo, and linking to pictures from The King’s Instagram.

“The King used to do drag,” Tommo explained in the chat at one point. “I asked him about it during a private show, which you all should look into scheduling btw.”

Harry clicked on one of the Instagram links idly, sucking in a breath when it finally loaded. 

God, The King was fucking beautiful like this. Like _Veronica_. It was a selfie, and The King — Veronica — was wearing what Harry assumed was a long dark wig, the bangs sweeping into his eyes as he puckered his ruby red lips at the camera.

Harry was struck by a sudden and intense urge to bend Veronica over a table, grabbing fistful of hair while he rucked Veronica’s skirt up. Harry wanted to spank Veronica raw, wanted her sweet whimpers to give way to deeper, equally sultry grunts. Harry wanted to fuck Veronica so hard she didn’t know who she should be — the girl with the long hair and the manicure, the boy with a snapback who got off in front of strangers four or five times a week, or the real person underneath both personas. 

It was a potent, heady image and Harry was surprised to realize that he was hard in his own joggers. Harry knew he was attracted to The King — you didn’t religiously watch someone masturbate on camera if you weren’t into them — but Harry had never really gotten off on The King’s shows while he was watching them. He wasn’t the type who sat there with his cock out, wanking furiously. He watched The King and paid him what he was due, but it was a clinical kind of watching, one where Harry almost felt like he was taking notes. Because ultimately Harry recognized that The King was a persona and camming was a job. Harry was just curious as to how the whole thing worked.

But this — imagining himself with The King, imagining himself as the one bringing The King pleasure — Harry had never let himself go there before because it seemed like such a dangerous territory to explore. Daydreaming about himself with The King felt kind of wrong. But Harry couldn’t shake the slinky image out of his head.

It took far closer to ten minutes than two, but finally The King emerged as Veronica. She was wearing a long, curly red wig and tottering on the tall heels The King had produced from the back of his closet, with the basketball jersey hanging off her thin frame. Harry supposed The King didn’t have the time to fully commit to the makeup he was capable of producing, but Veronica’s eyelashes were still long and sweeping, her lips puckered in a sultry red pout. Veronica sat back down in front of the camera, giggling as the chat box went wild with compliments and praises.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still going to do Thursday Book Club,” Veronica murmured. Her voice was softer than The King’s but thankfully she maintained the same lilt in her tone. “I keep my promises, thank you. And I re-read _Frankenstein_ this week so I’m certainly not going to miss out on the chance to talk to you all about it.”

Veronica grinned and it was the same intense smile The King threw to the camera when he was pleased with himself. It sent a soft whir of comfort and familiarity rattling through Harry’s body and he relaxed against his sofa, dipping a carrot into his hummus and watching as Veronica began recapping the novel, discussing horror, the birth of science fiction, and the influence of Mary Shelley on popular culture — all while grabbing a vibrator and pressing it against herself.

 

+++

 

Harry supposed he was not the stereotypical webcam model viewer. Or, he did not imagine himself to be the archetype that others frequently envisioned when they thought about webcam models’ most loyal paying customers. Harry was a twenty year old uni student living in London and pursuing an Urban Studies degree at University College London. Harry was passionate about architecture, particularly art deco, and loved thinking about built environments and their influence on populations. Harry worked hard and spent a lot of time revising because he wanted to do well by his mum, and while he sometimes dreamed of what it would be like to have fame and fortune, to have people love him, he also thought that he was smart and that he should use his wit and intelligence for some social good.

Harry was not an older man with a generous bank account. Harry’s parents did well for themselves, well enough that he could live in Camden and go to UCL without taking on a job, but Harry himself certainly wasn’t rich. There were other things he could be spending his money on instead of a webcam subscription, like organic locally-sourced produce, new novels, and his Oyster card. And Harry wasn’t a lonely gentleman craving affection via the internet. Harry certainly loved attention, and sometimes he did feel lonely and like he was studying his life away, but he had never figured that his desire for positive affirmation and fear of loneliness were driving characteristics of his personality. Harry wasn’t a sugar daddy seeking thrills and adventures online. He was just a uni boy who had stumbled onto something that thrilled and fascinated him. Who had stumbled onto an industry and a _boy_ that fascinated him.

Because The King made it all seem _easy_ , the whole webcam thing, although Harry knew from his abridged Reddit research that it obviously wasn’t. But sometimes Harry had long, lingering thoughts. Ones where he watched The King pull down his pants to take himself in hand, or drizzled lube on a vibrator in preparation of putting it up his arse, and wondered whether he could make money doing that, too.

It was a silly thought, one without much weight, but it was still there.

 

+++

 

Harry pulled up The King’s stream one slow, Wednesday afternoon as he procrastinated on his weekly reading. The King’s show seemed similarly unhurried and lethargic. The King was still earning what looked like good money in tips, but Harry could tell that he was working harder than usual, the smile searing his face not entirely reaching his eyes. Something was off and Harry was sure he wasn’t the only guy in the chat who could tell. 

Hell, the realization that The King was uncomfortable made unease burrow itself underneath Harry’s skin. Harry wanted to fix the situation. He wanted to make The King smile genuinely, the one where he couldn’t seem to entirely control the spread of his lips and the crinkling of his eyes. That grin was a rarity in these shows, almost like a peek into the person The King really was. Harry wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was obsessed with bringing the real boy some sliver of joy, wished that he could be the one to make The King laugh and smile so hard his eyes crinkled into little crescent moons.

“Private show?” Harry found himself typing, rubbing his index finger over his lips anxiously. “Name the price and I’ve got you xx”

The King was scanning the chat box, palming himself through his joggers almost idly, like the gesture was more out of habit than actual interest or intent. His eyes bulged a little once Harry’s comment went through, but then he was clearing his throat, smirking sultrily and a little put on. Harry hated that he’d watched enough shows to know it wasn’t genuine.

“There are details about private shows and more in my profile,” The King said. “If you’re really interested in scheduling some one-on-one time with me, I would love to hear from you and we can work something out later this morning — or wherever you happen to be in the world.”

Harry rubbed suddenly sweaty hands against his trackies and opened up The King’s profile in a separate tab. It was certainly one of the neater, more simplistic pages on this particular website. There was a link to The King’s Amazon wishlist and social media accounts. A brief bio explaining that he was a twenty-one year old Brit living in LA who loved the three C’s: comics, cash, and cuming on camera. A few quotes Harry didn’t recognize the origin of. It wasn’t entirely personal, but Harry supposed The King was at a point in his cam career where he didn’t necessarily _have_ to divulge much beyond the basics of his carefully crafted persona.

The private show rules on The King’s page didn’t seem particularly troublesome. He made it very clear that he didn’t accept payment via PayPal — money would only be processed through the streaming site. There was a minimum payment amount for private shows and a disclaimer that scheduling was entirely up to The King’s discretion. A customer could also pay additional fees for access to The King’s Snapchat and Kik accounts, and The King noted that he was always grateful for gifts and tips. 

Harry thought about the deposits he had recently received into his personal checking account. One from his mum and stepdad to help with his rent, which he’d already paid for the week, and the other from his dad to help with everything else. There was plenty of money in his savings, too, and Harry had already budgeted for the month and determined he had plenty left to play with. The King wasn’t asking for a _lot_ , actually, about the equivalent of a nice pair of boots. It made Harry wonder whether The King performed a lot of private shows rather cheaply. Or did The King have the luxury of being really selective about which requests he accepted? Harry very suddenly realized he had no idea how lucrative private shows were and whether camming was even The King’s primary source of income or not.

Harry switched back over to The King’s main window, surprised to note that The King’s shirt was off and he was explaining the origins of some of his tattoos. A new customer must’ve come into the room and asked about them. Harry had heard these same stories at least four times already and didn’t particularly feel compelled to sit through the same explanations for the fifth time. 

“Def still interested in that private show,” Harry typed. “Ditto with getting your Snapchat and Kik. Gonna tip you the amount right now!”

The King paused briefly in his story, dragging his fingers away from his chest in order to type something on his laptop.

“@StylinGoldBoots94 sounds like a plan =P”

 

After the show finally concluded, Harry sent The King a message through the streaming site and The King responded by sending Harry a Kik and an invitation on Snapchat. The King hadn’t already come on camera that night — hadn’t done much beyond take his shirt off to answer those questions about his tattoos and giggle while palming his cock through his joggers — so he said he would be down with having a private show ASAP if Harry was willing to stick around online.

“You want C2C?” The King texted.

“Don’t know what that means . . . ”

“Camera to camera. You see me, and I see all of you big boy aha ! ”

Harry scrubbed at his eyes and flipped FaceTime on, grimacing at his reflection before turning it back off. It was still fairly early in the evening, but Harry had already done everything to get comfortable for bed. His hair was a fucking mess, he had spots all over his forehead from stress, and there were persistent bags under his eyes. It wasn’t exactly the sort of impression Harry wanted to leave on a sex god like The King. “I look gross,” Harry texted back. “My hair looks like shit.”

The King answered almost immediately. “C’mon, babe. Know you want me to watch you get off !”

Harry didn’t, not really. He had honestly just wanted to pay The King enough to get out of that stupid public show because it had felt like a waste of The King’s time. But Harry was also sure there was some sort of cam model reason behind The King’s wheedling. And Harry couldn’t deny this guy anything — he was sure of it. It was why he already blew so much money subscribing to shows every week, forking out tips and typing ridiculous things in the chat box while The King fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to be demure and coquettish and actually into this whole stupid charade.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry finally ended up agreeing.

“Loading up the chat now xx”

Harry put his phone down on his knee and forced himself to take a deep breath. In, out. This was going to be fine. In, out. 

Harry bit his lip, closed his eyes, and hoped to whatever god there was that he wouldn’t cock this whole thing up.

 

When the chat finally loaded up on both ends, The King stared at his laptop screen for a long moment. The King was sitting shirtless in bed, the computer balanced along his leg, and the lighting was low and intimate. It didn’t look like the same room he normally did his stream from, and overall the quality looked less like a professional show and more like a regular video chat between friends. Harry waved awkwardly while The King continued to gape, and Harry felt a frown flit over his face as the moments dragged on. 

“ _Oh_ ,” The King finally said. “Sorry. You — you’re just really pretty. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Harry scoffed, running his fingers through his hair and getting annoyed when he tugged through a greasy knot. It wasn’t like Harry didn’t think he was unattractive, but he had just never felt so un-sexy in his life. Maybe he would be into himself again once his final year of uni was over and he had a real fucking life again. “Um. I’m not really pretty. Well, I mean. I don’t have low self esteem or anything. Just I think ‘pretty’ — like, when I hear that word, I think about someone like you.”

“No. You’re like — you’re gorgeous,” The King continued. His voice was soft. Low and almost wondering. A little awed. Not that The King wasn’t a quiet, introspective person. Harry had always assumed that the real human beyond the camboy persona was probably an introvert, but this felt different. This felt hesitant and tenuous, a moment of legitimate connection. Harry wanted to cradle the feeling in his palms, hold it close and never let it go.

But just as soon as it came, the moment was gone, and The King smiled his large, blustering smile. The one that made Harry feel disoriented and which compelled customers to empty their wallets night after night. “Have you ever thought about becoming a cam model, babe?”

Harry barked out a laugh, slapping his hands over his mouth and looking around his flat wildly while The King cackled as well. This conversation couldn’t possibly be happening. The King wasn’t saying this to Harry right now. Harry’s life was ridiculous. “Cam model? Oh. Um. No?”

“I don’t ever invite people on camera with me, but I might have to make an exception for you,” The King murmured. His voice had gone gruff, and his eyes seemed darker than normal, almost like he was legitimately _attracted_ to Harry. But that was ridiculous. The King probably did this in all of his shows — flattering customers so they would cough up the big bucks and schedule session after session. Isn’t that what this whole business was about? Relationships? Tricking high paying viewers into thinking they were getting something real out of this arrangement? Harry felt like he had read that somewhere — probably on one of the message boards he had stumbled across on his journey toward The King. 

“You’ve got amazing lips — pink, supple. I imagine you’re great at sucking cock. You look like the type of boy who would gag for it. Can only imagine how much we’d make together. I’d lay you out on my bed, pull all that gorgeous curly hair back so everyone could see as you choked on my dick.”

Harry blushed, fluttering his hands over his groin but miraculously managing to keep his fingers away from his cock. The King seemed to track the movement, his eyes keen and assessing even as he continued to grin. It was a bit unnerving, actually, having The King’s singular focus like this. Harry had never really thought about what it would be like before, to be talking to The King one-on-one without the lights and the distraction of the comment box. It was entirely overwhelming realizing that _this_ show was all for him. Harry simultaneously wanted to run but also bask in The King’s undivided attention. 

Harry wondered whether The King had Harry in a small thumbnail to the side of his screen, or if The King had Harry open wide, covering up all of his other windows. Not knowing — the uncertainty of whether The King was actually _capable_ of being into this call or not — actually made Harry feel hotter and more electric, his arousal causing sweat to drip slowly down the back of his neck. 

“You like that, huh?” The King asked cheekily, leaning back against his duvet and pulling his laptop with him. “Like when I talk dirty to you? Or you like the idea of people watching?”

“I — uh.” Harry licked his lips and let the weight of The King’s words sit for a few moments. “Both, I think.”

“That what you want me to do tonight, love? Talk about what I want to do to that pretty face of yours while the whole world watches?”

Harry lifted his shoulder helplessly. “I — I don’t entirely know what I want.” 

Harry wasn’t sure what the etiquette even was in this situation, and he certainly wasn’t sure what he was hoping to get out of this call. And Harry knew that his uncertainty could cost him, that The King could pump Harry dry while he ran through strategies and figured out what exactly got Harry hot and bothered. An extra ten quid for this, fifteen for that. That was the name of the game, and Harry couldn’t be too upset about it, not when he already felt like he would give The King the entire world if he wanted it.

The King seemed to take pity on Harry though, his face softening. “How old are you, love? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Twenty,” Harry replied. “I’m not jailbait or even that much younger than you.”

The King shrugged. “Would never know just by looking at you. You ever requested a private show before?” Harry shook his head. “You ever watched a recording of one on Pornhub or summat?” Again, another shake of the head. The King pursed his lips, looking pleased although Harry had no clue why. “All right. Well, you’ve watched the show — you know my rules. What I will do, won’t do. What have you liked watching me do? What keeps you coming back week after week?”

Harry ran his finger over his lips nervously and The King smiled kindly. There it was again — that glimmer of legitimate connection, a moment where Harry felt as though he was seeing the boy behind the lights and the camera. “Um. Dunno?”

“Really, @StylinGoldBoots94?” The King asked wryly. “I’ve seen your tips and comments, you know, and I have a pretty good memory, especially for the people who are nice to me and can type in complete sentences. I can probably guess what you like, what gets you going.” 

The King looked up through the fan of his eyelashes and Harry felt as though his heart was caught in his throat. The King was so unfairly beautiful. He had an otherworldly face and he was _nice_ , willing to pretend to like Harry for money, and Harry was willing to pay him to continue the charade. Harry would pay and pay until he had nothing left, and The King would smile and put a dildo in his mouth if Harry asked, would moan around it and say he wished it was Harry’s cock. Or Harry could suggest that The King put on a wig and a bra and become Veronica. Harry could see it already, The King's lipstick smudging across his teeth as he bit down on his bottom lip and fucked himself on a bright purple dildo, bouncing on the silicone and trying to balance his laptop on the edge of the bed. Harry knew what he could ask for and what he couldn’t, but the one thing Harry really wanted was the one thing entirely out of bounds. Because Harry wanted to know who the boy was behind it all, the boy who prepped himself before the show and cleaned come off his stomach after the lights had dimmed. 

“You’re always on time for Thursday Book Club,” The King remarked, his voice still soft and exploring. It was like he was talking to an especially skittish horse. And maybe Harry was behaving like a startled animal — he had no way of knowing how he looked like to The King, this experienced adult entertainer, the number one male cam model on a very successful site. “So what’s your favorite book, babe? What should we talk about?”

“You don’t have to call me ‘babe’ or by my username,” Harry replied shyly. “You can just call me by my name — by Harry. Have you read any Bukowski?”

The King shook his head slowly. “That’s a little bit too hipster even for me, babe. Sorry — _Harry_.”

Harry tried to fight against the urge to preen at the way his name sounded spilling from The King’s lush lips. “Maybe you could talk to me about your favorite book?”

“My favorite book?” The King parroted, looking a little taken aback. Harry frowned. Surely it wasn’t that strange of a request. “Oh. Really? That’s what you want?” Harry nodded and The King shrugged, still looking a little surprised. “Hm. I really love the _Harry Potter_ series.” 

“Then you should talk about _Harry Potter_.”

The King blinked again and tilted his head to the side, almost like he was thinking particularly hard. Harry had the impression that the camboy mask was slipping off. The King never looked like this during his shows — questioning and unsure of himself. The King was never self-conscious, never anything but cocky and certain in his movements on camera. 

Or maybe The King was just tired. Maybe Harry was just projecting his hopes and desires onto The King’s movements. 

“You sure that’s what you want?” The King clarified.

“Yeah. I wanna — I like the idea of hearing about what you enjoy. I wanna see you get off on something. Like, both intellectually and physically, I guess.”

“Huh,” The King said, angling his head again. He looked a bit like a bird or a confused puppy, and he was staring at a point off screen. “Intellectually and physically. I might have to steal that for my blog.”

But then The King was standing, Harry suddenly catching a flash of bare inner thigh and a dark thatch of pubic hair before The King made his way off camera. When The King returned, it was with a box of condoms, a giant bottle of lube, and a large flesh colored dildo. The King dropped them all unceremoniously in front of his laptop, grinning hungrily at Harry.

“When I was younger, I used to daydream about Draco Malfoy,” The King admitted, climbing back on the bed. He wasn’t wearing pants, and even though he wasn’t hard, Harry couldn’t help but stare at his soft cock. He’d seen The King nude before, obviously, loads and loads of times, but Harry had never seen The King’s cock flaccid like this. The King was a tease, and he never let the paying customers see his dick until it was tenting his joggers or making wet spots against his basketball shorts. It was all a tantalizing game, The King pulling at his drawstrings and inching the fabric down over his hips. Once The King had everyone tipping and gagging for it, he would finally pull his clothes off, revealing his cock, hard, thick, and glistening. So seeing The King soft felt special and private. Like they were really laid up in bed together, trading secrets and talking shit before Harry begged off to bed. “I’d stumbled upon some fan art of Draco and Harry Potter, Harry with his cock buried in Draco’s ass. I remember it made me all hot and bothered but I couldn’t understand why.”

“Was Draco Malfoy responsible for your gay awakening?” Harry asked, watching curiously as The King slicked his fingers up with lube. The way he had his laptop positioned, Harry couldn’t see his hole, but Harry still knew the exact moment The King worked a finger in from the slight gasp that he uttered, the way his eyelashes fluttered. It almost made it better, Harry felt, not being able to see. So much about The King’s shows was about positioning the camera, zooming in, making sure that everyone could see the action in graphic high definition. This felt softer, realer. The exact type of intimate experience Harry had always craved with The King.

“Not so much Draco, maybe,” The King said. Harry had always been so impressed by The King’s ability to multitask. He could monitor the rapid fire dialogue of his chat box while deepthroating a dildo. He carried on full conversations with a vibrator in his ass, the flush on his cheeks and collarbones the only thing giving away his proximity to orgasm. “Like, I thought Tom Felton was fit, obviously. But with this picture, I wasn’t feeling attraction to Draco. I was feeling like — I felt like I wanted to _be_ Draco. I wanted Harry Potter to fill me up. Wanted his cock in me. And that was definitely a new thought for me at the time.”

Harry had no clue how many fingers The King had worked into himself, couldn’t see the way he was stretching his rim in preparation for the dildo lying on the bed next to him. But Harry could hear him, could see the The King’s eyes darkening and the way his nipples were hardening. Harry wanted to drag his fingers across The King’s skin, lick the sweat beading across his chest. Harry wanted to be there in his bedroom, wanted to remove The King’s fingers and lick into him, nipping through the tacky taste of lube to get to the musk of The King’s own flavor. The desire was so thick and heavy Harry didn’t even know what to do with it, hardly even knew what to do with himself, so he just had his hands balled up in fists on top of his Mac.

“So Harry Potter was the source of your big gay awakening.”

“Guess so,” The King admitted. “That same day, I went into the shower and got my hands all soapy, pressed fingers into myself and felt like the whole galaxy exploded inside of me. So I guess it’s fitting, now, that I’m talking to a boy named Harry, isn’t it?”

Harry flushed crimson and The King laughed, his breath hitching halfway through a giggle. The King shifted on his knees and Harry bit his lip at the sight of The King’s fingers arched inside himself, the way his rim stretched around the intrusion. The King slowly drew his fingers out and tilted his laptop with his clean hand, smoldering at the camera and playing with his angles while Harry tried to avoid guffawing too obnoxiously. The King snickered as well before grabbing the dildo and condom, tearing the wrapper open and rolling the latex over his toy. 

“I’m gonna want to see you too, you know,” The King remarked conversationally as he uncapped the bottle of lube and began smearing the slick over the dildo. The movement of his hands over the toy seemed strangely clinical but Harry couldn’t pinpoint why. “It’s no fun doing this by myself. I get that enough during the regular shows.”

“You can already see me,” Harry said, but The King shook his head emphatically.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” The King replied. “It’s not every day I get a PYT — a Pretty Young Thing — on the private show. Let’s have fun with this, yeah? Want to watch you come hard.”

“I’m not much of an exhibitionist — ”

The King snorted. “Bullshit. I can read you like a book and I know the demure thing is all an act just cuz you haven’t done this before and don’t want to mess it up. But I can promise you that you won’t. Plus you already admitted that you get off on the idea of people watching you. So get your cock out.” The King batted his eyelashes, sweet and sultry like he did during his shows all the time. “ _Please_. Please get your cock out, babe.”

Harry sighed, pushing his own laptop down onto the bedspread. His fingers fumbled with the laces of his trackies, but once he finally got them untied, he pushed the waist down and let his cock slap against his stomach. Harry forced down a hiss as the cool air of his flat hit him, instead training his eyes on the boy staring at him on his laptop screen. The King was watching Harry almost predatorily, and once more Harry wondered whether he was really into this, if he actually meant the words he was saying. There was no way of knowing, but Harry supposed he could say the same thing about someone he was hooking up with in real life.

“You’re fucking massive, Harry,” The King whispered. “God. I wish you were here in bed with me so I could sit on that huge cock. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I bounced on top?”

Harry gripped the base of his dick almost helplessly. Harry supposed it didn’t matter if The King really meant it or not — he sounded so convincing that Harry wouldn’t last long regardless. “ _Please_.”

“Or maybe we could reenact that fan art I’d seen,” The King continued, his voice low and filthy. He was rubbing the tip of the dildo against his entrance and Harry was watching the movement like he'd been hypnotized. “You could get me on hands and knees, put your hands around my throat as you grind against me. Tease your cock against my rim until I beg for you to just get on with it, to fuck yourself deep into me and fill me up.”

“My God — ”

“Or I could get you on camera,” The King smirked. He’d started pushing the dildo into himself now, this smooth glide that made Harry’s prick jump against his belly. “You’re made for it, babe. Got the baby face and the fit body and the big cock to make good money. I’d bend you over my knee and get your pants down, smack your arse until it was raw and red and everyone in the comment section was tipping for it — until you were _begging_ for it and you’d almost forgotten entirely that we weren’t properly alone. And then I’d fuck you in your tight hole just like you wanted, just like you’ve always asked me to do on camera, yeah? I’d get my hand around you and wank you good in time to my stroke, have you wanting to scream out my fucking real name, but of course that’s not allowed. That’s not in the rules.” 

The King seemed to be working the dildo into himself in an almost impossible angle, fucking himself slow, deep, and unhurried, but Harry already knew that the guy was limber and creative, had to be considering the field he was in. But still, the dirty push of the toy coupled with the filth streaming from his mouth had Harry practically in tears. Harry was holding off from stroking himself or rolling his balls around in his hand, almost felt like he wasn’t allowed to touch himself properly until The King told him to, but as soon as Harry was given permission, he knew he’d only last 30 seconds. That’s how close he was mentally, how tight and wound up The King had him just from a few words and the heat of his undivided attention. 

“You’d be the best boost to my show,” The King continued. His words had been slow and deliberate ever since he got the toy worked inside, but they were even tenser now the closer he seemed to be to coming. “Everyone would be so fucking into you. Into your pretty boy face and your charm. They’d want to know where I found you, how I talked you into appearing on camera with me. And I’d spin them some story — both of us would — something to make people tip big, but you’d be _mine_ , yeah? At the end of the day, I’m the one who was smacking your arse, the one who was fucking you so good you almost forgot you were being watched. Yeah, at the end of the day, I would be the one spunking on that gorgeous face of yours and licking it all off.”

“Please,” Harry murmured. “Please, can I — ”

“Fuck yes,” The King said. “Wanna watch you do it, Harry. Wanna watch you come.”

Harry keened, spitting into his palm and rolling his foreskin back across the head as he watched The King’s own motions quicken. They seemed almost like they were in sync, The King grunting as his hand blurred where it was fucking the dildo into himself, his cock blurting precome across his stomach and smearing over his hip. It was too much to handle — the knowledge that it was just Harry and The King, that The King was the one saying he wanted to spank Harry’s arse and fuck him open and invite him onto his show — and then Harry was coming, his eyes going cross as his orgasm erupted out of him.

“Fuck,” Harry dimly heard The King murmur reverentially. Harry blinked his way back into the realm of the aware and the conscious and was glad he did so, because The King was pulling the dildo out of his ass and instead wrapping both hands around his cock, tugging once, twice, three times, before he came all over his duvet, his lips biting down on a whine that sounded almost like _Harry_.

 

“Can we do this again?” Harry asked hesitantly, once they had both calmed down and The King realized he had gotten spunk all over his bed and laptop keys. Harry grabbed a flannel from his own bathroom, dabbing at his stomach lethargically, and returned to his laptop to watch The King grab a box of wet wipes and slowly, methodically clean up his own mess. “I — this was a lot of fun. I really liked talking with you.”

“‘Course we can,” The King yawned, tossing the used wet wipes somewhere off camera. Hopefully into a bin. “You know what my fees are and the payment structure is. Just give me plenty of time so I can plan something extra special for you, pretty boy.”

Harry flushed, feeling stupidly endeared and absolutely knackered when The King blew him a kiss and ended the call.

 

+++

 

Harry wished that it didn’t become a thing — shelling out hard-earned pounds for private shows with the King — but rethinking his budget and scheduling weekly private shows with The King kind of became a thing.

Harry still sat in on some of The King’s public web streams but it wasn’t the same watching him perform for the masses. Harry knew he probably sounded like a massive twat even thinking as much, but Harry had gotten spoiled. Harry liked talking to The King privately without the pings of tips and the distraction of the chat box. He liked telling The King awful jokes and watching his face screw up in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Harry liked hearing The King talk about comics and upcoming movie releases and how he’d spent his day in between his public and private shows. And Harry liked watching The King get off. Obviously.

But some days they really did just talk. Harry knew it was probably exhausting for The King to be “on” all of the time, expected to flash a smile, follow directions, and come on camera day after day. So Harry insisted that for some of their private chats, The King should at least find some time to unwind, lounge about, do whatever made him happy. Harry would turn on his webcam and sit and revise while The King did the same, hunched over a sketchbook or an English textbook, each boy giving updates and showing off his work with a proud smile. Or The King would pack his pipe and lay back against his headboard, Harry trying not to stare too obviously at the pinkness of his lips where it wrapped around the glass. 

There were days where The King insisted that he wanted to give Harry a great show and get off and those days were fun, too. He’d send Harry links — scenes of dark haired boys with big cocks fucking each other in ludicrous locations — and they would watch and make comments before whipping their own cocks out, egging each other on. It was hot and felt dangerously sordid, kind of like two mates who had let things go too far after a healthy circle jerk, but mostly Harry liked learning tiny little things about what The King liked in bed. How he said he liked twisting his fingers through a boy’s hair, tugging sharp and hearing his partner keen. How he liked it when someone bit at his bottom lip or tugged on his ear. And how there were toys in his collection that made him cum in seconds. Every new kernel of knowledge always made Harry flush all over, and he frequently wished that the scenes The King sent him generated a similar response. But the actors in those silly porn clips never quite measured up to the sight The King made when he squeezed his eyes shut and came. Harry started to wonder if he would ever find anyone else attractive again, the memory of what The King looked like when he’d been teasing himself for an hour making the rest of humanity look downright common in comparison.

It was nice. Finding space that worked around their eight hour time difference wasn’t much of an issue because The King was a night owl and Harry didn’t have much to occupy himself with in the afternoon besides revising. Occasionally Harry wanted to take a nap instead, or The King drank too much out at some club and wasn’t up for it, but even then The King would just send a text full of emojis telling Harry to suggest an alternative time. The King had even offered to share his Google Calendar with Harry more than once, but Harry didn’t know how he would react if he had to pencil in his time with The King around his regularly scheduled webstream and other private show commitments. Harry liked pretending as though he were special, as though he were the only person The King was talking to.

And The King was certainly willing to indulge him. Texting Harry so that he would have something to wake up to before his classes. Doodling these awful sketches of Harry where he had big eyes and even bigger hair and laughing at Harry’s faux outraged expression. And, once, taking a picture when Harry had accidentally fallen asleep while they were still chatting, texting it to Harry along with a “Goodnight babes xx”. The moment should’ve been embarrassing, seeing himself hunched over in his bed and probably snoring obnoxiously loud, but Harry had only flushed deep, feeling something warm flutter inside of his ribcage even as he promised The King that he would find a way to get him back. 

 

+++

 

The first term dragged onward and Harry chugged through his coursework because that’s what he had to do. Harry felt as though he had cut back severely on his social life in order to keep his marks up, so the amount of time he spent out with his mates had dwindled significantly. He’d always been a social butterfly, the type of person that draws his energy from people and their good humor, but his course load had seemingly doubled this past year, leaving him with little time for socializing. Harry loved his subject area and he was sure there would be loads of opportunities available for him once he graduated from the Urban Studies program, but sometimes thinking about the complexities surrounding the built environment, climate change, and migration all day sent him into a bit of a panic.

There was a time when Harry would’ve turned to his flatmates or his sister, Gemma, when his thoughts about uni and the real world got too overwhelming. But these days, Harry found himself turning toward The King.

It was a strange arrangement and Harry had to rethink his budget in order to make things work, but he found a way to bump up the weekly number of private shows from one to two, three, or even more. Harry cut back on how often he went out to clubs on the weekends and shopped the budget range for his groceries so that he could afford to splurge on the number of private shows he could schedule with The King each week. Luckily enough, having access to The King’s snapchat and Kik accounts only required a one time payment, so Harry could still chat with The King and receive pictures and short videos all the time. Harry didn’t feel entirely comfortable sometimes when he thought about it too hard — that he was kind of paying The King to listen to him when he ranted about transportation policy via text — but The King repeatedly said he didn’t mind and that hearing about Harry’s classes was actually fairly fascinating. 

Harry supposed the uni discussions were good for both of them. The King had mentioned repeatedly that he was essentially stranded in Southern California and not doing everything he’d set out to do education-wise. He’d moved to the States for school but ended up dropping out of his program when “things didn’t work out.” Harry never asked outright because he didn’t want to pry, but the tightness of The King’s smile had always led Harry to assume that The King had followed someone out to California and then had to deal with the consequences when that relationship ended.

Regardless of whatever really transpired, The King was trying to save money so that he could return to school. He was taking a few classes at a local community college but had aspirations of going to UCLA to resume his study of English or History. He’d explained that that was why he initially turned to cam modeling — a way to both pay for his basic expenses and allow him the luxury of saving up cash for school.

“And it’s good money?” Harry asked one day right at the beginning of one of their private shows. It was fairly early in Los Angeles — 7AM according to the world clock on Harry’s phone — but The King hadn’t objected when Harry suggested scheduling a talk in the afternoon UK time before his flatmates returned from their own classes. Harry actually had the distinct impression that The King hadn’t rested much the night before. There was early morning stubble dotting his cheeks and he was stifling yawns behind a closed fist, his hair artfully sleep tousled. “The cam modeling thing, I mean. You really make enough that you can put some into savings?”

“It’s a hustle and not always the most reliable one,” The King admitted, rubbing at his collarbones distantly. He did that sometimes — picking low scoop T-shirts that exposed the jut ofhis collarbone and the clean lines of his numerous tattoos. Harry was certain these fashion choices were intentional, but either way, he frequently wished he could bite The King’s skin, see for himself whether it turned purple when it bruised. 

But that was one thing The King didn’t do on his shows — there was no real BDSM play. He had admitted once that he had a pain kink, but said that it was something he didn’t want to explore on camera for the whole world to see. Harry had never gotten brave enough to ask whether he could pay to watch The King spank himself during a private show.

“Like — Tuesday morning I had a show and I made $40, so only like £25,” The King continued. “Two hours of grinding and that’s all I fucking got once the site took their cut. But we’re doing a private show right now.” The King smiled wolfishly, no doubt thinking about the £250 Harry had sent over earlier that week just for the privilege of telling The King stupid jokes and watching him wank. “So that’s nice. And when I have an unsuccessful morning, I can always get on later on in the evening when more Americans are online. It’s cool. I’m fulfilling a niche here on this platform. So many camboys are just exhibitionists without creativity, without hustle and grind. I’m not like that. This is my profession and I take it seriously, you know? But still. It’s a lot of fucking work on my part. More than what most people assume.”

“How do you mean?” Harry asked. “Like — that other guys on this site are just exhibitionists?”

The King cocked his head to the side. “Have you ever watched anyone’s show but my own?” Harry shrugged and shook his head. “No? _Really_?”

“No?” Harry said. “I mean — I dunno. I’ve clicked out of curiosity, but yours is the only one I watch with any regularity. I really like Thursday Book Club — you know that. You’re gorgeous and interesting. So your show has everything I need, I suppose.”

The King looked extraordinarily pleased with himself, biting down on his bottom lip so hard Harry was sure he would leave indentations in the skin. “Well. I’m flattered. But if you watched anyone else’s show, you’d know exactly what I mean.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“I don’t get paid to be nice,” The King remarked evenly. “I get paid to come hard on camera.”

Harry figured that was a fair enough point so he hummed, watching idly as The King continued to scratch at the tattoos decorating his skin.

“So what do you want to do today?” The King asked. “I figure you don’t want to just talk, even though that is nice and we can certainly do it if you want.”

“Do some people who request private shows ever want to just talk?”

The King lifted a shoulder lazily. “People want all sorts of things. One guy likes for me to put on a dress and dance around the room to Madonna. That’s it. Another guy asks me to read excerpts from Dan Brown books to him before we get off. I dunno. Everyone’s got something special that gets them going, I suppose.”

Harry didn’t feel like he was creative — or kinky — enough to suggest anything like that, even though he certainly had specific fantasies about what he would like to do to The King in person if he ever got the chance. Asking The King to blow him and then rubbing his fingers over The King’s cheekbones when he did. Asking The King to ride his face. Things like that. But as far as their private shows went, Harry just liked when The King was happy. He liked it when The King smiled at him and said he was gorgeous. He liked when The King sent him texts in the morning. And Harry liked calling The King the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen. None of those felt creative or kinky — certainly not something you would chat to a friend about over brunch. Harry felt boring in comparison.

“I think we should do like the first time — whatever makes you happy,” Harry suggested. “I like it when you’re having fun.”

“The first time we talked about Thursday Book Club and _Harry Potter_ ,” The King smirked. “It wasn’t entirely about what I wanted. I was just going off your vibes — off my read of you.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Is that like a warning or something?”

The King shrugged. He was still smirking, grinning at Harry almost wolfishly. “Maybe?”

“Why? What do you wanna do?”

“I think it would be fun to flip things,” The King said, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I want _you_ to be the camboy. I want you to get off for me.”

Harry wasn’t looking at himself in the tiny chat window, too busy focusing on the sharp, predatory edge to The King’s grin, but he was sure he was gaping, mouth open wide as he stared incredulously. “You’re having me on.”

“I’m definitely not,” The King said. “You said we should do whatever makes me happy. Watching you makes me happy. You’re proper fit and you’d make a fortune camming if you ever listened to me and set up a channel. So go on. Give us a show, Harry. Get your kit off.” The King paused, clapping his hands in his lap and fluttering his eyelashes. He could be such a tosser sometimes, but Harry still felt endlessly endeared. “ _Please_ get your kit off.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” The King answered, licking his lips. “Seriously.”

Harry nodded, steeling himself mentally as his brain clicked through everything The King just said. Harry insisted that The King pick what they’d do today, and The King said this was what he wanted. He wanted Harry to pretend like he was the one giving the show, like The King was the paying customer. It shouldn’t have been such a hot idea. Harry shouldn’t be quivering with nerves and expectation, rubbing sweaty palms against his legs and looking around his room almost wildly. 

How the fuck did The King do this every night? How did he find it within himself to be “on” for strangers, to chase his own pleasure while also finding a way to make the sight appealing for others? God, The King was far more complex than Harry had ever dreamed, and that was just the outward facing persona he let Harry see. Harry might never entirely untangle the web hiding real boy.

“Hey,” The King said softly. Harry tore his eyes away from where they had somehow gotten stuck on his desk and settled them back on The King. He was lying back on his bed, same as he always was whenever he and Harry video chatted, and it was refreshing to gaze on him under soft, natural lighting. He was blinking long and languidly, like he had all the time in the world, and the warm California sun was making its ways through The King’s blinds, settling over his skin like a golden blanket. For not the first time, Harry couldn’t help but marvel over how _beautiful_ The King was. “Don’t get yourself too worked up over this, love. We’re just pretending. It’s just me. It’s just us.”

Harry chuckled, stubbornly attempting to ignore how warm and cocooned he felt by The King’s words. The King always managed to say exactly what it was Harry wanted to hear. “I just — I dunno. I’ll try not to feel nervous. If this is what you want — ”

“It is,” The King interrupted. “You’re what I want.”

Harry breathed out, long and as even as he could manage. He didn’t know why in the world he felt so bloody nervous. It _was_ just The King. Someone he’d fallen asleep talking to. Someone who he’d run essay ideas past and asked for grammar help. Someone who Harry daydreamed about during his lectures more often than not. The King had already seen his cock. The King had watched him come multiple times. How was this any different, really?

“Am I pretending like this is a show?” Harry asked. “What should my cam name be?”

The King smiled and shook his head a little disbelievingly. “Your real name is outrageous and performer-y enough.”

“ _Hey_.”

The King held up his hands defensively as he chuckled. “I’m just saying. But you don’t have to pretend you’re doing a full stream. Just — pretend like you’re doing a private show. I texted you to come online and now it’s just you and me.”

Harry nodded to himself and pushed his laptop off his legs, standing and walking off camera. Harry was wearing what he typically did during their chats — a vest and joggers — but The King typically wore even less. So Harry walked over to his dresser and rummaged through his pants drawer, pulling out an Armani thong that his ex-boyfriend had gotten him as a weird Pride gift first year. Harry tossed off his other clothes and pulled the thong on.

“You still there, babe?” The King called, his voice echoing through Harry’s bedroom.

“Gimme a mo,” Harry replied while The King laughed. Harry jumped in place, just like he used to do before class presentations during secondary, and then made his way back over to the laptop, settling in front of The King with the smile he always adopted whenever he was trying to charm someone right into his bed. “Hello, gorgeous,” Harry said. “You ready to have fun tonight?”

The King didn’t squeal in delight, but it was a close thing, as he clapped his hands in front of his face and _preened._ “You look well fit, babe,” The King cackled. “Had a good day, yeah? Ready to strip for some tips?”

“If that’s what you want me to do?”

The King grinned, his teeth glinting white where he bit at his bottom lip. “Think that’s what I would like to tip for tonight.” And The King held up his phone, pressing something that emulated the ping of a site donation. Harry pressed his hand over his face to stifle a snort. “So, what are your rules, babe? What can I ask you for as a valuable, wealthy, and very well-endowed customer?”

The King was quite possibly the biggest dork Harry had ever encountered. “Uh. I dunno. Same as yours, I guess. I’ve never thought about it before.”

“So if I tell you to get out a toy and sit on it you’ll be okay with that?”

Harry shuddered, his cock giving an interested twitch where it was still flaccid in his briefs. Harry had cleaned his hole in the shower this morning, slowly, almost randomly, without the intent of doing anything about it, but maybe he had somehow psychically sensed that this conversation would be happening later. “Fuck. Yeah.”

“What about if I ask you to suck on the toy first? Get it nice and wet?”

Harry nodded, hoping he didn’t look too eager about it. “Yes.”

“Sounds like we’ve got ourselves a deal then,” The King said, clapping again like he really was a customer who had just negotiated his deepest fantasy into reality. “Do you actually have anything? A toy that you can use?” The King smiled mischievously. “A cucumber even?”

“I’ve got phallically shaped food, but they are for eating not fucking,” Harry replied haughtily. “I have a few things. Just — just not quite the treasure chest you’ve got.”

“Lemme see.”

Harry picked up his laptop with one hand and stood, walking over to his bedside table. Harry jerked it open and rummaged through journals, some old bills, and a few other odds and ends until he pulled out a shoebox that he’d jammed all of his naughty things in. Harry set the shoebox on the top of the bedside table and tilted the laptop lid down so that The King could see when Harry started pulling things out.

Harry really did mean it when he said he didn’t have a treasure chest of naughty toys like The King did. Because The King had the newest and the best — things he’d purchased to spice up the show as well as gifts from his customers. Harry expected he had the sorts of things a young queer man might have stashed away. Bottles of lube, condoms, a bright pink dildo that he’d never actually used, another flesh-colored one, and a vibrator that Harry only used sparingly because it felt too good and once distracted him from coursework for a solid week.

“How is it that you don’t have more toys? I am mortally offended. Your homework is to purchase more,” The King replied lazily. “Get out that dildo — not the pink one, the one that looks like an actual cock. Thanks.”

Harry sat his laptop down on the bed and grabbed the toy, a condom, and one of his bottles of lube, tossing each of them onto his mattress. The King started to hum, this jaunty, upbeat thing that sounded familiar but which Harry couldn’t entirely place. Harry settled back onto the bed, his breath catching when The King smiled at him.

“The secret to any successful cam model is learning how to read people,” The King said. “So what are you reading off me right now?”

Harry licked his lips and let his eyes scan over The King’s gorgeous, familiar face. The King looked both sharp and relaxed, something out of a California daydream, but he also looked expectant, his hazel eyes warm and eager.

“That you’re really into this,” Harry said. “And you are, right? You really like this?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t into it. Are you?”

“Into this?”

“Yeah.”

Harry shrugged helplessly. “I’m into you.”

The King snorted but he also blushed, redness rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “You’re sweet.”

“Like candy,” Harry quipped, grinning when The King groaned. Harry settled back against his pillows and pulled his laptop onto his thighs, playing around with the tilt of his screen. No matter what he did, he couldn’t manage to get the lighting right, his face looking pallid underneath the harsh, unforgiving bulb in his bedroom. 

The King watched Harry battle with technology, eyebrows quirked upward in mirth. “Are you struggling there, love?”

Harry pouted his lips. “No. Yes. I mean — how do you manage to look so good on screen all the time?” Harry huffed.

“I’ve got a shit ton of lights in my room,” The King yawned. “The first thing I did when I decided I was going to be a cam model was buy an umbrella light from Amazon. Best investment ever. It can be a bitch to hide when someone comes over, though. Sometimes I wear a little makeup, too, just so my skin looks refreshed.”

“Really?” Harry asked, stopping his fiddling to look at The King. “You wear makeup in some of your shows? Not just when you’re Veronica?”

The King laughed a little, probably at Harry’s naïveté. “Oh yeah, really. The girls do it. Why shouldn’t I? Just a little concealer and mascara — but we’re not talking about my fucking makeup routine right now. How are you feeling, babe?”

Harry shrugged. “Really good now that I’m thinking about you doing your makeup.”

“You should feel even better thinking about that toy you’ve got on the bed next to you,” The King retorted. “‘Specially because I want you to deep throat it like it’s my cock.”

Harry felt the subsequent spasm of arousal unfurl first in his guts, the vibrato of lust so intense Harry’s brain short-circuited entirely. When Harry felt as though he were capable of speech again, he murmured something that vaguely resembled, “Yeah, yeah. I feel good about that.”

The King rolled over on his bed, pursing his lips challengingly. “I think you should show me how good you feel about it.”

Harry hadn’t fucked anyone in a while. Not since the end of his second year when he’d cocked things up with Cara, Kendall, and Nadine in fairly rapid succession. And Harry hadn’t slept with a boy in even longer, the last encounter bathed in a haze of heartbreak, whiskey, and regret. But that didn’t mean Harry forgot how to do this, that he couldn’t remember what it was like to pour on the charm for a new partner. 

Harry grabbed the dildo, closing his eyes and pretending that it actually was The King’s cock. Pretended that the cold silicone was actually warm, pulsing flesh, and that The King was looking down on him, silently begging Harry to just _get on with it_. But Harry was a tease, didn’t feel ready to give The King exactly what he wanted quite yet, so he licked a strip along the base of the toy, swirling his tongue around the tip and opening his eyes just in time to watch The King’s breath hitch.

It shouldn’t have been so hot, sucking silicone into his mouth because The King told him to. It shouldn’t have made Harry feel _so good_ , sexy and wanted, desired. But Harry liked having The King’s eyes on him, liked feeling as though he were the one with the power for once. Because The King was watching him from thousands of kilometers away, slack jawed and with hooded eyes, the edge of his lips curved upward in the ghost of a smile. And Harry couldn’t imagine anything making him feel better. 

By the time Harry finally sucked the entire toy into his mouth, his eyes watering as the tip of it hit the back of his throat, The King had pulled off the majority of his clothes, sitting only in his pants.He was rubbing his hands methodically on his thighs, up and down, up and down, almost like he was hesitant to fully touch himself. But the desperation was there, plain in his intense gaze and the tremble of his fingers. The King _liked_ this. He said it and he meant it and Harry was giving him what he wanted.

“I think it’s wet enough,” The King rasped. “You still want to sit on the toy for me?”

Harry nodded, pulling off the dildo with a wet pop and running his tongue over his lips, grinning at the low growl The King emitted over the video call. “Yeah. Yeah, I want to.”

“You gonna prep first?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, placing the dildo base down on the bedside table.

“Take the briefs off,” The King instructed. “But slowly. Like — like you’ve got all the time in the world.”

Harry nodded. He pushed his laptop to the absolute end of the bed and tilted the screen back so that it was pointing toward his headboard. When Harry felt satisfied with the angle he crawled toward the head of his mattress, tossing the pillows to one side. Harry sat up on his knees and positioned himself so that The King could see where the thong was biting into his arse. Harry grabbed the waistband, pulling it so the fabric snapped against his waist and smirking when The King moaned and rubbed a hand down the side of his face.

Harry continued onward as The King instructed, pushing the briefs off at a completely unhurried pace and arching his back out so The King could get a nice, long look at his bum. Harry got a little clumsier once he’d pulled the thong off his ass, though, fumbling with the fabric and almost braining himself when he attempted to kick the damn thing off his ankle.

“You’re pretty good at this,” The King murmured. “You’re _really_ good at this — minus the part where you almost died.”

“Shut it, you,” Harry retorted, but there was no heat behind the words. He was too busy grabbing the bottle of lube and uncapping it. The liquid was cold and tacky, but Harry warmed it up along his fingers. The King was watching him intently and Harry never felt more like he was putting on a show than when he reached for the laptop with his clean fingers, angling the camera so that The King would have the perfect view for when Harry planted his feet on the bed, lifted his hips, and first began pressing an exploratory finger inside himself.

“Shit,” The King cursed. “Fuck, Harry. You look — God. You look amazing.”

Harry preened under the compliments, under The King’s heavy gaze and his increasingly labored breathing. Harry fucked one finger in before bringing another to nudge up against that spot inside of him that made the air whoosh out of his lungs and his eyes cross, his cock now distractingly hard where it throbbed against his stomach. And all the while The King whispered that Harry was beautiful, that he was made for this, that Harry was the perfect video star.

Harry was certain they both wouldn’t last long once Harry had managed to fit four fingers inside of himself, the digits pressed close together and nudging sweetly against his prostate. He had never fisted himself before, but he was so desperate for The King’s approval that he would’ve given it a go right then if he’d been asked. But thankfully The King remembered the original intention of this exercise, and he instructed Harry to remove his fingers, roll a condom on the toy, and lube it up generously. 

“And push your computer further away from you on the bed again,” The King added. “I want to see you bounce on it. Want to know what you would look like grinding onto my cock.”

Harry felt like a live wire, like pure, white hot electricity, his entire body created solely for The King’s pleasure. He took a steadying breath and picked up the toy with both hands, peeking up to make sure The King was still watching. Harry managed to fit the dildo inside of him, sinking onto it in one long push while his fingers grasped, slick and sticky, at the base of the toy. Harry looked up at his computer, his eyes first taking in The King in all of his godly, unreal glory. The King looked wrecked, breathing unevenly, his pupils blown wide, one hand stroking his dick while the other rolled his balls between his fingers.

But then Harry turned to examine the tiny image in the corner of his screen, peering in order to fully comprehend what it was he was seeing. Because Harry had never seen himself look like this before. He looked long and lean, his tattoos standing out sharply underneath the cool light of his room. A flush was working its way across his collarbones and splotching across his cheeks, making him look young and feverish. His green eyes had gone almost black with arousal, his lips were raw and pink, and his cock had gone almost purplish, straining and smearing across his stomach. Harry didn’t even know he was capable of looking so sexual, so sinful. He’d never fucked someone in front of a mirror before even though it was certainly on his to-do list, and he’d never let himself be recorded. Snapping a nude photo of his reflection in a dirty bathroom mirror was one thing. Catching a glance of himself sitting on a toy while a cam model looked on and got off was something else entirely. 

Harry finally thought he might understand what The King was getting at when he said Harry would do well as a cam model.

“You looking at yourself right now?”

Harry flushed, lifting himself off the dildo and almost collapsing from how good it felt to have the toy pressing against his prostate and The King watching him closely. “Yeah. Fuck —sorry.”

“It’s good, babe. Don’t blame you. I mean, shit. Just look at you. You’re so fucking fit.” Harry felt another tremble roll through his body hearing The King’s low, gruff voice and The King grinned, clearly picking up on Harry’s pleasure. “You like that? Like hearing how fit you are and how much I wish I was there with you right now?”

“Shit,” Harry mumbled. “Babe — ”

“Cuz I do,” The King interrupted. “I think you’re fucking fit. You’re bloody gorgeous and you’d look perfect sitting on my cock. _God_ , Harry. I wish I knew how your come tasted.”

Harry wasn’t expecting it. Harry didn’t even know he could do it. But he’d been close for what felt like ages now, and Harry felt his face screw up and his throat spasm in expectation. His body seized and then the world went still, everything of importance shrinking down to encompass the bliss surging through his body and the low, admiring swears spilling from The King’s mouth.

 

“I’ve never done that before.”

It wasn’t a nightcap, except for how it totally was. The King enjoyed checking in with Harry at the end of their private shows and Harry enjoyed feeling like The King was taking care of him. Sometimes The King pushed open a window in his bedroom and lit a cigarette or a blunt while he talked, adding a sordid after-sex element to their chats, but this time they were both laid up in their respective beds, bodies loose and words slurred and unhurried from their orgasms.

Harry had felt too lazy to properly clean up after he came, so he’d pulled his sheets off and thrown them onto the floor, grabbing a spare blanket from the storage container underneath his bed. The King was similarly lethargic after he’d gotten off. He kept stifling yawns behind his hand but he was soft, smiley, and attentive like always, grinning at Harry with warm eyes. 

“Never done what before?”

“Come without touching my dick.”

The King grinned, lazy and positively filthy. “Well I hope you manage to do it again. It was so fucking hot. It’ll give me wank bank material for ages.”

“If you say so, love.”

The King’s smile softened. “It’s almost sweet how you think I don’t mean it when I say stuff like that.” Harry lifted a shoulder, smiling low and small. The King sighed, his fingers twitching like he was reaching for a cigarette. “You’re good, though? Feeling alright? Got your money’s worth?”

“Yeah. Never been better.”

The King smiled, nodding to himself and looking satisfied. “Nice. Well, I’m gonna go to bed then. Talk to you later?”

“Course,” Harry said. “I’ll text you. Cheers, love.”

The King blew a kiss and Harry pretended to catch it, slapping his palm against his heart before blowing a kiss of his own. The King was chuckling when he turned his camera off, leaving Harry alone with his dirty sheets and his even filthier thoughts.

Harry closed his laptop lid and clutched his knees to his chest, resting his chin on top of them.

 

+++

 

The end of first term was absolute shit, but Harry managed to convince himself that it was a marathon and not a sprint, so he somehow managed to bullshit his way through it. Harry had spent the week before Christmas writing essays, and then Harry took the train back to Cheshire, collapsing in his bed the moment he entered his mum’s house with arms laden down with luggage and gifts. The next few days were filled with mulled wine and roast turkey, Harry attempting to consume as many of his mum’s mince pies as possible.

Being back home didn’t discourage Harry from still scheduling time with The King. If anything, sitting in his childhood room with its peeling Man U posters and tiny single bed only made Harry more desperate for the The King’s low voice and warm eyes. Harry couldn’t entirely explain it, but he figured that The King had just come to represent everything exciting about his life in London — adulthood, enthusiasm, independence, sorting out what it meant to be a country boy in a cosmopolitan city. So Harry spent his days with his mum, stepfather, and sister, or friends from secondary, and then hid out in his room chatting with The King at night. His family teased him mercilessly for the long hours he was spending with his bedroom door shut, bringing up old stories of Harry doing similar things when he was younger. It took Harry a few days to understand why his nightly exodus was so funny to them, but he eventually gleaned from their ribbing that they assumed he was hiding out to catch up with a mysterious new love interest.

Harry didn’t even know how to begin telling them all the ways they were wrong.

It was great being at home, but Harry returned to London for New Years. He immediately went out and got spectacularly drunk, pissed enough to make up for the months of constant revising and minimal social activity. He found a boy in the crowd with honey colored skin but the wrong colored eyes, and Harry kissed him at midnight, licking into an unfamiliar mouth even as he made New Years wishes for someone else.

 

The second term started about a week and a half into January, and Harry tried to reconcile himself to the hard truth that he was now only a few months away from graduation and The Real World. The third day of classes Harry ended up sitting in his flat’s tiny kitchenette, his laptop open as he stared at syllabi and felt so overwhelmed by everything he needed to accomplish that he wanted to cry. Harry dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, taking low, deep breaths, before pulling his laptop closer to him and typing out a DM to The King.

“Can you come online if you aren’t already?” Harry wrote. “Feeling super stressed and would love to talk to you. Name the price and I’ll make it work.”

Harry was actually fairly surprised when a response came two minutes later. “No need for tokens unless you want to get off,” the first message read. “And I don’t feel like getting onto the streaming software. Add me on Skype.” And then Harry’s phone buzzed with a separate message including The King’s Skype username.

Harry meandered through to his bedroom, locking the door and placing his laptop on top of his bed. Harry hardly ever used Skype except to chat with Gemma and his mum, and his fingers shook a little as he added The King as a contact. It felt a little strange, like they were blurring the boundaries even more than they already had. The King was moving Harry from this strict little box — “Customer” — to something that included chatting without payment on a more personal service like Skype. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it and he stubbornly attempted to remind himself that he shouldn’t get his hopes up.

Harry received an acknowledgement letting him know that The King had added him as a contact as well and then Harry accepted the subsequent call. The King looked almost half-asleep when he finally popped up on Harry’s computer screen. His hair was in complete disarray, and there was a crease from his pillows on one of his cheeks. Harry could hit himself. He’d probably woken The King up. It _was_ fairly early in Los Angeles.

“Sorry,” Harry said by way of greeting, chewing on his lip nervously. “I know we’d already scheduled a call for 7AM your time — ”

“No, we can talk,” The King insisted even as he fought against a yawn. Harry felt absolutely awful for disturbing him. “I’m tired but I don’t mind. I like chatting with you.”

“Do you really?”

The King smiled at Harry, that soft, fond one that seemed to flit over his face from time to time. “Of course, babes. I’ve told you a million times. Now what’s going on? What’s got you feeling so stressed?”

“Just uni, I suppose,” Harry said, running his hands through his hair and sighing. “I’ve been feeling a bit shit about everything related to school lately.” 

To be honest, Harry was feeling more than “a bit shit.” He was exhausted by UCL’s quick pace, by its academic rigor and Harry’s desire to get a first when he graduated, and yet he simultaneously couldn’t entirely shake the nagging feeling that all of this hard work was useless. Like he was somehow wasting his time doing things the traditional way — what he’d always been told by his mum and his family and society writ large was the “right” way.

Sometimes Harry wondered what it would be like, to craft his own path the way The King did. Harry knew that it wasn’t as simple a narrative as that, that The King was merely playing the hand he was dealt and trying to make the most out of a poor situation, but still. The King seemed happy, or at least content with where he was in life, and Harry was the one stressed out and more interested in watching The King get off multiple times a week than he was in buckling down and figuring out what he really wanted out of life. Of course it was possible that Harry was just overthinking things and stressing himself out in these first few days of the term — had gotten far too caught up in the game he and The King were playing, the compliments and steady stream of assurances that Harry could go far in modeling and adult entertainment if he wanted to. But maybe Harry _did_ want to. Maybe a seed had been planted here and Harry needed to see things through.

If anything, talking to The King did make Harry more curious about sex work more generally, and he’d already asked one of his professors about if there was a way he could explore the relationships between sex work, the built environment, and government resources. It was an intriguing element of urban planning that his coursework didn’t explore in much depth and Harry just felt like he had so many questions — about school, about work, about life, about The King — and he had nowhere to start when it came to looking for answers.

“You’ve glazed over a bit, love,” The King chided, jolting Harry from his thoughts, but when Harry looked up, The King was smiling warmly, even if he also seemed a little concerned. “Want to talk to me about it?”

“Oh, I’ve just — I think talking to you has expanded my thinking a bit, s’all. Made me more intellectually curious or whatever.”

The King perked up, his eyes widening. “Really? In what way?”

“Well you know I’m studying urban planning, and I guess I’ve just been thinking more about how marginalized communities fit into all of this. We talk about homelessness loads, but we don’t always explore intersections. So I dunno. I’ve been thinking a lot about sex workers.”

The King raised his eyebrows. “Do your courses not talk about sex work much?”

“Not really. I brought it up to one of my professors — that it’s something I’m interested in — and he mentioned that Amnesty International has recently adopted a policy to protect sex workers and that I should look into volunteering with them if it’s a passion of mine.”

“Is it?”

Harry scratched the inside of his elbow, his fingernails grazing over the lines of his tattoos. “Dunno. I guess so? Maybe more of an interest right now. Like, I think protecting people like you is important.”

“I’m fairly lucky and privileged that I get to do so much of my work on my own terms,” The King said. “I don’t think you have to worry about me, even if it is flattering to hear, but protecting other sex workers is definitely very important.”

“Do you like referring to yourself like that?” Harry asked. “Like, when people ask about your profession, what do you say you do?”

“I don’t tell everyone what I do. But when someone asks, I’ll just say I cam on the side. I dunno — not a lot of people ask, really. And it’s a good umbrella term, I suppose, but it just doesn’t seem right for me. I’m not really having sex with anyone.”

“Getting off while someone else is wanking is sex.”

“I don’t — that’s not — ” The King cut himself off, growling out a frustrated breath. He seemed a little anxious, actually, running his fingers through his hair and avoiding looking directly at his camera. “But I don’t really _have sex_. Like. If you get what I mean.”

Harry blinked. “You don’t get off unless it’s on camera?”

The King seemed to be chewing the inside of his cheek. He lifted his shoulders but the gesture didn’t seem as blasé as he probably intended. “No? I just. It hasn’t been a thing. Not for a while. Or like — not since I really started camming seriously. I work a lot so I don’t really have the time to pick someone up. And I also don’t want it to look too mechanical when I’m doing the show or having a private conversation with someone and that can happen when you come too much off-camera.”

“So you only masturbate when you’re on camera, too?” Harry clarified. The King nodded. “And you’re not dating or fucking around?”

The King shook his head. “I’ve been single for like a year and a half.”

“And you’re not interested in changing that? You’re not like — secretly married?”

The King barked out a laugh. “No. Like. I just — I’d been seeing someone when I first started doing this but it didn’t work out and I’ve enjoyed being single.”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, peering at The King in disbelief. “I never would’ve guessed. You look like someone who would have people throwing themselves at you.”

“I mean, people do in the chats and stuff,” The King answered. “But it’s not really interesting to me. When you spend so much time thinking about sex and how you look when you come, it kind of takes some of the fun away from it when you actually go to do it when there isn’t a camera and thousands of viewers. Not to say that I’m not having fun when I’m doing my shows — I am. I’m _definitely_ enjoying myself. But it’s hard for me to turn my brain off when I’m with someone else. I’m constantly thinking about my angles and making sure to arch my back the right way, not screwing my face up too hard when I’m about to come. And I also crave intimacy now, I guess, like I really value taking it slow and savoring touch, and it’s hard to enjoy that with someone you found on Tinder who just wants to get off before their girlfriend comes back home. I dunno. It’s weird.”

“No,” Harry protested. “It’s not weird.”

And it did make a lot of sense when Harry thought about it. Harry _loved_ sex, couldn’t get enough of the spontaneity and the dirtiness of it. Harry loved how it could be completely random — how he never entirely knew when he was going to stumble upon someone fit who was down for a romp. Harry couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to try to schedule something so whimsical and impulsive around a commitment like a webcam show. And Harry wasn’t self-aware, still didn’t entirely know what he looked like when he got off. Nobody had ever played him footage back or critiqued his face when he was in the middle of an orgasm. Harry didn’t think he _wanted_ to know those sorts of details about himself.

“I think it makes sense that you would have those feelings about sex,” Harry continued. “But do you tell your customers that often?”

The King rolled his eyes. “No, of course not. These are people who frequently crave a sex god image. Which — I mean, that’s fine. I’m selling a fantasy no matter who I’m talking to.”

“Even me?”

“Especially you,” The King said, a sly smirk creeping at the edges of his lips. “You like thinking you’re getting a peek behind the curtain. You like thinking you’re special — which makes sense because you are in so many ways. But I had you pegged from the first moment you mentioned scheduling a private show in the chat. You want the boyfriend fantasy.”

Harry hoped he wasn’t turning crimson, but The King always picked up on his embarrassment whether it was obvious or not. “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to say it for it to be true,” The King said. “I don’t mind. I like talking about work and you say great stuff. It’s not like it’s onerous to give you what you want.”

“I say great stuff?”

“Yeah, during our first private chat when you said you wanted to watch me get off intellectually — that was fucking amazing. I’ve got a journal that I’d love to turn into something one day and you inspired like 5,000 words of random musings. So yeah. It’s really no burden on my part.”

“You write?”

The King rubbed at his eyes. “Nothing major. Just in my journal — a handful of short stories. I’ve taken a few creative writing classes at this local community college, but I’ve got a long way to go before the hobby can turn into anything substantive.”

Harry rolled over in his bed and pulled his laptop with him, closing his eyes and trying to stifle a yawn in the palm of his hand. When he opened his eyes again, The King was watching him closely. Carefully, almost. Harry felt pinned in place like he frequently did whenever he had The King’s undivided attention. Harry wasn’t sure he could deal with it right now. Not when The King had admitted he was selling Harry something — the illusion of intimacy and closeness. The boyfriend fantasy. 

Harry knew the assessment wasn’t completely baseless or without merit. Harry did like feeling as though he was unique, the only one The King truly confided into. And of course it was ludicrous for Harry to assume he was the only one, not when The King spent his spare time chatting to so many different men, but the thought made Harry feel good. Wanted. Different. Special.

But at the same time, even rationally realizing that he couldn’t possibly be the only person The King talked to about his private life, Harry couldn’t help but hope that _maybe_ he was. The King had said over and over again that he thought Harry was gorgeous, this unattainable Boy Next Door who just happened to drop into his chat. The King was the one who’d insisted repeatedly that he truly enjoyed chatting with Harry and daydreamed about bringing Harry onto his show.

Harry’s brain was a complete fucking mess. He needed to sit with his feelings for a while, process whatever was really happening here, decipher which parts of this relationship he was paying for and which parts were genuine.

“Can you put something on for us?” Harry asked hesitantly. He tried to avoid glancing at himself in the chat window, sure as he was that he looked peaky and distant. “I know I didn’t pay for this, but I can give you something and you can send over a video for us to watch together?”

The King nodded, but he didn’t look as sure of himself as he normally did. He was rubbing his fingers over his collarbone and his lips were pursed. “Yeah, yeah. Anything you want, babe.”

The King pulled up some stupid Sean Cody video and Harry sent over £20 through the cam modeling site. The two of them sat back in their respective bedrooms and Harry pretended as though he found the brawny men with their orchestrated moans appealing.

 

+++

 

Harry hated to admit it, but over the next few days he turned The King’s words in his head over and over and over again.

“ _But I had you pegged from the first moment you mentioned scheduling a private show in the chat. You want the boyfriend fantasy_.”

Harry knew it wasn’t an ill-founded assertion — he was stupid and probably more than a little delusional, but he wasn’t _that_ dumb. He did daydream about having a real relationship with The King. But either way, the words still made something heavy sit in his guts, seeping into the intestines and festering there. Harry wanted to push and prod and demand clarification because his whole world seemed strange now, out of sorts.

Harry felt as though he had learned a lot about cam modeling just by virtue of talking to The King. Harry learned about umbrella lighting and setting up cameras, about the entire system of tokens and tips, about toys that made The King’s toes curl as he shuddered and came. But what Harry didn’t learn was where the fantasy ended and where the projections began. Harry didn’t learn how to separate the friendship from the fiction. Harry didn’t learn how to deal with the surging, complicated emotions he felt every time he gazed upon The King’s face and heard his name spilling from The King’s lips, and Harry certainly didn’t know how he could even begin to bring it up. Hell, should he? Did Harry have any reason to question what was happening between he and The King? Who was Harry to assume there could be anything between them anyway — that he could one day be someone cherished to The King? Shouldn’t he just enjoy this relationship for what it was — whatever it was? Shouldn’t Harry just accept that The King was humoring him for cash and keep it at that?

If Harry was a different person, he would’ve learned to switch his brain off and enjoy the time he and The King shared. But Harry could only be himself, and Harry was someone who let his thoughts consume him, someone who intrinsically desired approval and companionship and all sorts of sappy shit he never voiced out loud. And so one day he and The King were Skyping while Harry was at the library with his headphones in — because that’s what they did now, sat on Skype instead of using the streaming site for their private shows — and Harry asked The King what his real first name was.

The King went still, absolutely motionless. His smile faltered, his eyes shuttering, and Harry had never felt like the gulf between them was as wide as it was now.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry murmured, backtracking immediately. “Like — I understand that you want to protect your privacy and everything. And you certainly don’t owe me anything. But if you’re all right with it — if it doesn’t make you really uncomfortable — I promise that I won’t do any digital digging. I just think it’s weird that I’m always mentally referring to you by an online username, especially when you’ve said it yourself that we’re basically friends now. We Skype and text each other all day. I just — I dunno.”

The King pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. It didn’t seem particularly defensive or predatory though. Just seemed like he was thinking really intensely. “How do you have me saved in your phone?”

“As ‘The King.’”

The King hummed underneath his breath and put his chin in his palm. It always amazed Harry how hazel and enchanting his eyes were even when the two of them were having these ridiculous conversations over Skype and FaceTime. The King never looked bad, even when his Internet was shit and the video was grainy. The King was so beautiful and sweet and chill and Harry liked him more than he probably had any reason to.

The King mumbled something and Harry jolted, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

The King cleared his throat and smiled, big and more than a little lopsided. “Um. Zayn. I said my name is Zayn.”

Harry blinked. He felt like he’d been tossed out onto his head. He hadn’t planned this conversation at all, but if he had, he would’ve expected for The King to tell him to piss off. Nicely, of course, but the message would’ve still been received. Harry hadn’t expected to be given this little glimmer of _something_ — expectation. Hope, maybe. Ridiculous, silly, vapid hope.

Because Zayn was a beautiful name. A wonderful name for an equally gorgeous human being.

The King — _Zayn_ — was watching Harry closely, probably attempting to gauge his reaction, but Harry also thought Zayn looked fairly pleased with himself underneath the carefully constructed mask. Harry bit at his bottom lip to keep his smile from cleaving his face in half. He’d almost entirely forgotten that he was even in the library, headphones in and his coursework ignored as he talked to a boy — to his friend — living halfway across the world. 

“Zayn,” Harry repeated, letting his mouth linger over the taste of The King’s real name. “I like it. I like that name a lot. My name is Harry.”

Zayn snorted, peering up at Harry in a mixture of what looked like fondness and disbelief. “I know that.”

“Yeah, but you shared so I wanted to, too? Never mind. I’ll just — ”

“Don’t be silly,” Zayn chastised, although he started yawning halfway through his sentence, rubbing his eyes blearily like a child.

“You should go to bed, love. It’s — what? Like five am in Los Angeles?”

Zayn pulled his blanket up to his chin, shifting the screen of his laptop as he jostled about. “Going on four, yeah. And I’ve got an appointment before the cam show. So yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Appointment?”

Zayn hummed, low and sweet. His eyes were dark and drooping. Harry wanted to push the fringe from Zayn’s face and press chaste kisses along his warmed cheeks, grazing his lips down every centimeter of golden brown skin. Harry wanted to curl up beside him in bed and run his fingers through strands of dark, silky hair. Harry wanted this gorgeous, sleepy-eyed boy — not The King, not Veronica — so badly he wasn’t sure how he would manage to cope with all of his swelling emotions. 

“Going to get a wax and a manicure,” Zayn mumbled. “Have to look good for the camera.”

“Hm. We all know how important primping is to you.”

“Shut it,” Zayn yawned. “You feeling alright, babe?”

Harry nodded, fighting against the urge to preen too obnoxiously under Zayn’s wondering voice. Harry hadn’t known it was possible to feel this good, this special and appreciated. “Yeah. I feel — I feel wonderful, love.”

“Good,” Zayn murmured. “Gonna go to sleep. Text me when you’re done with your reading and I’ll Snapchat you something as a reward.”

“Will do,” Harry said. Zayn blew him a kiss, like always, before logging off Skype. Harry turned off his laptop and attempted to turn back to his reading, but the butterflies in his stomach kept him from being too productive.

 

+++

 

Time did not stop, even though Harry would have preferred for it to slow. January ended and restaurants and stores began their preparations for Valentine’s Day. It was the first time in a few years that Harry would be spending that particular day single and alone, and Harry expected that Zayn would be completely booked with private shows the day of. And Zayn was, for the most part, but he also found the time to send Harry a “Happy Valentine’s Day” text and a very, very saucy Snapchat video. 

Similarly, Harry found the time to scroll through Zayn’s Amazon Wishlist, purchasing him a new toy and including a series of hearts in the message he sent alongside the gift. Harry wasn’t the type to use emojis, to include an exorbitant amount of X’s and O’s, but Zayn made Harry feel mushy and illogical. Made Harry want to break his own rules. 

Harry recognized that he had a full-fledged crush. A stupid, one-sided, ridiculous crush on a cam model he paid to have a relationship with. It was an extraordinary situation and one Harry couldn’t quite believe he got himself into. But as a coping mechanism Harry did what he normally did when he had a stupid, one-sided, ridiculous crush — he finished up all his coursework early one evening, called his mate, Niall, and got ridiculously, spectacularly drunk. 

Harry hardly even remembered the actual act of picking up a petite blonde girl, but he could vaguely recall eating her out all night, licking up against her until his lips went numb and she was shoving his face away from her wet folds.

 

The next morning, Harry woke up with fuzzy teeth, a thudding headache, and five missed Skype calls from Zayn. Harry pushed himself away from the girl he couldn’t exactly remember the name of and picked his clothes up from off the floor, fighting against the bile that was rising up his throat. Harry shoved on his clothing, found his coat flung over the side of the sofa in the living room, and dug around in his pockets until he was able to locate his Oyster card. There was a dry erase board in the kitchen and Harry briefly considered writing a message there, “Thanks for last night” or something else equally laughable, but Harry’s phone vibrated against his leg again, so Harry saw himself out, pulled out his headphones from where he’d jammed them into his back pocket, and answered the Skype call.

“Haz?” Zayn asked, his tone tight while the video was still loading. “Haz, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Harry answered, taking the stairs down to the bottom level of the building. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized he wasn’t far away from the Warren Street station, and so only something like twenty minutes away from his flat. Harry made his way to the 29 bus station, pulling his hood up against the drizzling rain and holding his phone down by his stomach.

Zayn exhaled, long and full of relief. “Shit, Haz. I was fucking worried sick.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, his stomach churning with a mixture of sick and guilt. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to Skype call Zayn, and he still had that girl’s taste lingering heavy and musky on his tongue. “I’m sorry I missed your calls — ”

“Where were you that you couldn’t pick up your fucking phone?” Zayn interrupted. “We said we were going to talk. You told me to put it in my calendar and everything.”

“I know, I know,” Harry said. “I’m shit. I lost track of time — I’m sorry.”

“Where _were_ you, though, Harry? You’re not usually like this.”

Harry opened his mouth and huffed out a breath. “I’d gone out last night. Figured I needed to unwind a bit. Kipped at a friend’s flat.”

Harry glanced down at his phone screen. Zayn had his eyes narrowed and Harry slowed, coming upon a cafe with an awning shielding some of the outdoor seating. Harry pulled out one of the chairs and placed his phone onto the damp table. If Harry was going to get lectured, he should at least be seated for it.

“A friend’s? That why your neck look like you were attacked by a vampire?”

Harry felt helpless to the flush spreading across his face. “I, uh — yeah. Yes. Um. That’s why.”

Zayn’s eyes flashed and he leaned back against his bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll still have to pay me for the time I wasted sitting around for you when I could’ve had another private show going.”

“Yeah, yeah of course. I’m so sorry, Z — ”

“Who was it?”

Harry frowned. “What?”

“Who did you sleep with instead of calling me?”

“Just a girl I met at the club,” Harry answered. “Some random. Why?”

“Was just curious,” Zayn answered. “Wanted to know who could possibly be so interesting and attractive than that you missed out on chatting with me. But I guess I should’ve known it would be ‘some random’ at the club.”

It took Harry a few moments to realize it, but when he did, he almost had to fight down his own knowing smirk. Zayn was _jealous_. This wasn’t just about the money and potential orgasms he’d missed out on. He was upset that Harry had skipped their call to get off with someone else.

“You don’t have to worry, Zayn. I can hardly even remember it and I would’ve rather been talking to you.”

Zayn grinned, the gesture making Harry feel strangely accomplished. “Okay. I — I was just worried, okay? You normally answer your phone and my mind went to the worst possible place. But we’re okay now. Get back to your flat and call me back, okay? I’ll be waiting up for you.”

Harry nodded, his hair flopping into his face with the gesture. “Of course.”

“Make it up to me, babe,” Zayn said. “See you in a few.” He blew a kiss and hung up the call. 

 

+++

 

The school year continued to be hell, and Harry returned to the reality that included revising during the day and playing with Zayn at night. Sometimes Harry wondered whether or not he’d fallen into something he wouldn’t be able to climb back up from. He felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, but instead of encountering a world of fantastical characters, he’d found a sweet boy with warm Earth-colored eyes and a wicked grin. Harry would do whatever Zayn asked him to.

It wasn’t love, but it was certainly stronger than the average crush, with more layers than your standard infatuation. Because most crushes don’t end up with Skype calls in the afternoon, the spring sun slanting through windows as Harry watched, rapt, as Zayn performed for him. And most crushes didn’t include early morning texts and endearments, “babe” flowing from Zayn’s mouth just as easily as Harry’s name did. Harry, with his short attention span, typically didn’t harbor crushes for more than a few weeks. And Harry had an even poorer track record with keeping his mouth shut and his emotions to himself. So this wasn’t a crush — not anymore. But it wasn’t love, either. Because they weren’t on even ground, and just because Zayn said nice things and occasionally grew jealous didn’t mean he actually felt anything for Harry.

Although Harry was certainly curious as to whether he could change that. He still daydreamed of being with Zayn, ghosting his fingertips over skin and leaving marks along flesh. And Harry wondered what it would be like to be together — to end each Skype call with promises and affirmations and then to fly out to Los Angeles to see what Zayn’s life was like. Harry wanted to know whether he could make Zayn like him, just through positive thought and sheer determination. Whether he could have something to say to Niall and his flatmates when they asked him who he was up talking to all the time, and to his mum who still seemed insistent that he was hiding a secret boyfriend. It was quite likely that Harry had completely lost it, fallen down the trap of so many other customers who’d read far too much into the fantasy a model was selling. But it was possible — unlikely, but possible — that Harry wasn’t too far off the mark. That maybe there was something here between them. A beautiful, thrilling, terrifying something that could make all of the months of worry and confusion and budgeting completely worth it.

 

They were having one of their usual conversations. It was going on seven pm in the UK, and Harry was eating leftover curry while Zayn talked about a graffiti piece he’d been messing with in his sketchbook. The art looked great, just like everything Zayn ever showed Harry, but Harry wondered what it would be like to take the sketchbook into his hands for himself, his fingers flipping through thick pieces of stock paper while Zayn hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder and added commentary. It was the one thing completely lacking in their relationship — or whatever the hell this was. The reassurance of touch. Everyday, simplistic, and domestic intimacy.

Zayn’s words drew to a close and he started humming under his breath as he pulled up a new, blank page in his sketchbook and began doodling. Harry watched the movement of his fingers and wondered what they would feel like on his skin. 

“That first time we talked — were you like.” Harry huffed and ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated that he was finding it so hard to get the damn words out. Thankfully Zayn was only watching him patiently, his head slightly cocked to the side. Harry always wondered why Zayn watched him like that. It wasn’t like Harry was complicated, like there was anything about him that needed any figuring out. Harry had always worn his emotions on his sleeve. Proudly, stupidly. Naively. “I just. I remember you saying you were surprised that I was attractive. Do you not get that often when you’re talking to someone new on cam?”

Zayn frowned, his face pinching in confusion. “Am I frequently attracted to the people I do private shows for?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn shrugged. “Yeah. Yeah — I guess I chat with fit people fairly often.”

“So it’s not just old hairy guys all the time?”

Zayn snickered. “I mean, I get plenty of those, too. Fit guys are rarer, but I still get them. Enough that they aren’t complete fucking unicorns.”

“So what was so special about me?” Harry pressed. “Because you like — stopped. You just watched me for a long time.”

The lighting in Zayn’s bedroom wasn’t particularly generous, never really was when he wasn’t “on” for the cameras, but Harry could still make out the blush spreading across his cheeks. “Told you the first time, yeah? You were just really, really gorgeous. It caught me off guard.”

“But why?” Harry insisted. “If you get fit guys all of the time, guys who I’m sure would make a real fortune online — ”

“Well, it’s one thing to talk to a boy with washboard abs who just got back to his dorm and wants to talk to you about leg day,” Zayn interrupted. “You’re softer with dimples and amazing hair. You felt special. I dunno.” Zayn rubbed at his chin, his eyes darting to consider something off screen. “I don’t want to say you’re more attainable because that’s not right. But you really are like the Boy Next Door. The guy you swoon over at uni. You — God, Harry. You looked like the type of boy I would try to pull at a fucking Pinkberry or something and it was overwhelming.”

Harry gulped, his pulse leaping in his throat. He hadn’t known why he felt so persistent about this whole line of questioning, but maybe it was because he had somehow anticipated this moment. The one where he knew that Zayn was legitimately attracted to him, actually felt a stirring of _something_ when he looked at Harry on screen. Harry didn’t even know what to do with the information. It felt like too much for his poor, tired, overworked brain to handle.

“So you liked talking to me that first night?”

Zayn blinked and it seemed like a switch turned on, the sweet boy returning to whatever nice cupboard he was normally hidden away in. It was honestly amazing how Zayn did that — flipping between personas seamlessly. Because now The King was the one smirking back at Harry, the camboy and sex god with endless amounts of cocky bravado. “‘Course I did. You saw how hard I came.”

Harry tried to push down his frustration. For once, Harry did not want snark and banter and bluntsexual discussions. Harry wanted fragility. Harry wanted real connection, the sort that made him feel both brittle and invincible. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Zayn’s face went blank. “Then I don’t think I follow.”

“When we talk is it only a prelude to watching each other wank on camera? Or do you enjoy the times where we _just_ talk?”

There was a beat of silence and Zayn was watching Harry with eyes that seemed wary and almost distrustful. But the moment passed and then Zayn was snorting and wiping his hand over his face. “You know, you’re not _actually_ my boyfriend,” Zayn pointed out. The words themselves weren’t cruel, but there was an edge to them that made Harry sit up straighter at his desk. “You’re someone who historically paid me to get off on camera. You may know my name, but you don’t really know _me_.”

“But I want to know you,” Harry said. “I — I know it’s weird and you probably get this all the time, but I really, really, _really_ like you, Zayn. The real you — the one who stays up too late and loves doodling and _Breaking Bad_ and sometimes can’t return a fucking text. Not The King. The King is interesting, of course he is, and Veronica is, too, but the person I really want to know everything about is _you_.”

Zayn looked away from the screen, pursing his lips and sighing. Harry had never seen him this agitated. “You rattle off some facts about me, so now you want to date me.” Zayn didn’t phrase it as a question.

“I would like to,” Harry began slowly. “I mean — I really, really like you. I anticipate Skyping with you all day. The whole world seems brighter when I get a text from you. I — I’ve fantasized about moving to LA to be with you.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “And then what? I quit camming to be with you? I go back to school, do the respectable thing, and we live happily ever after?”

Harry frowned. “I never said that.”

“It’s implied.” Zayn licked over his lips and scratched at the back of his neck. Harry tracked the movement helplessly. “That’s what everyone wants, right? That I fall in love with them, am exclusive, and quit my job to be their sugar baby or something. It’s never about what I want. Because what if — fucking shocker — I legitimately enjoy doing this? What if I’ve had daydreams about taking my sex work further? What if I want to get fucked on camera — not by a dildo but by a real fucking person? What if I find something thrilling about exploring and documenting my sexuality on camera?” Zayn paused, looking somewhere off screen. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff and almost unfamiliar. “I don’t even live in LA.”

Harry felt his jaw drop. “ _What_?”

Zayn huffed out a breath, throwing his hands up before slapping them against his knees. “It’s just — I read up on forums before I properly got into this thing, yeah? Did my research, learned what all of the successful cam models do. And they said that you shouldn’t give out too much information about yourself. And people can be creeps, so. It’s not a huge lie. I do live in the States. I do live in California. Just — just not in LA.”

Harry blinked slowly, while Zayn fidgeted, twirling his headphones around his finger. Zayn’s explanation made sense. Of course it did. And Harry certainly wanted Zayn to be safe, wanted him to feel comfortable when so much about his career could be weird and even downright unsavory. But at the same time, it made Harry wonder what else Zayn had lied about. Was he really saving up to go back to school? Did he like the music Harry had been sending him? Did he even legitimately enjoy these conversations with Harry like he said he did? Was their whole friendship a lie? Just something Zayn did to keep the money rolling in and to help pay the bills? Was every single assurance part of a fantasy Zayn was selling? Harry was, quite possibly, the biggest fucking idiot on the internet.

“Is your real name even ‘Zayn’?” Harry asked, his voice coming out small and hesitant.

“Harry — ”

“No, _please_ ,” Harry interrupted. “Just tell me fucking the truth.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

“You lied about where you live,” Harry said. “Which means you’ve been lying about where you are throughout the day — ”

“No, no I haven’t — ” Zayn sputtered. He was holding his hands up placatingly and Harry hated it, felt a rolling surge of _something_ that made his stomach roil and sent a perverse thrill of spite dancing down his spine.

“And if you’re capable of lying to me about little things like where you’re living, you’re capable of lying about big things like who you are,” Harry continued. “But I guess it doesn’t even matter. You don’t feel the same way I do. You don’t want me — you just want my money. It’s a moot fucking point. It doesn’t matter.”

Harry sighed, dragging his eyes away from the screen and drumming his fingernails against the top of his desk. There was a dull roar in his ears and he felt as though his entire skeleton had been exposed, as though Zayn had somehow managed to sear his way through everything Harry was and found himself dissatisfied with the reality underneath. Harry wanted to shut his laptop lid and turn off his phone and _hide_. He wanted to go into the kitchen, slamming cupboards and making a clatter that disguised the frenetic bass of his heartbeat, the jagged path of his tears.

Harry wanted Zayn _so much_ , wasn’t even quite sure what to do with all of the longing he had stored up over the past few months. It would probably turn into bitterness now that Zayn was rejecting him. But Harry still looked up when Zayn called his name, his chest twisting at the pained expression on Zayn’s face.

“I don’t just want your money, Harry,” Zayn murmured. “Your friendship is very important to me.”

“Is it?” Harry spat. “Or is that what you say to all of your customers?”

“It’s not what I say to everyone, Harry. And you know that. I spend hours talking to you — every moment we can make it work, we do it, yeah? Just because I don’t feel comfortable dating you doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend.”

“But why not?” Harry demanded. “Why don’t you want to take it further? You’ve told me that you’re attracted to me. You’ve told me that you enjoy spending time with me like this. Hell, you’ve told me that you would even love to have me on your show. So why don’t you want me in a way that really _matters_?”

Zayn’s eyes flashed and Harry sucked in a breath, realizing almost immediately that he had said something ridiculously insensitive. “My friendship doesn’t matter? Fuck off, Haz. My friendship isn’t a consolation prize.” 

“I’m not saying it is!”

“You literally just said — ”

“But that’s not what I meant! I just want to understand why you’re willing to be there for me — even _with_ me — in all of these ways but not to put this particular label on it,” Harry huffed. “Because we’re basically doing everything that a couple does. We talk multiple times a day, you get mad when I fuck someone else — ”

“That was only one time — ”

“ — and you say these things about how important I am to you and how I’m special to you because I’m the Boy Next Door you could never have and yet you can’t even entertain the thought of us dating?”

Zayn threw his hands up, exasperation making his movements sharp and jerky. “Because you’re just going to ask me to stop camming!”

“I’m not, though!” Harry said. “How can I ask you to stop doing this when you’ve been camming since before I even came into the picture?”

Zayn shook his head, biting his lip so hard Harry was sure he would leave teethmarks on the skin. When Zayn finally opened his mouth to speak again, his voice was lower but not even. Not calm. “Look. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Having more-than-friends feelings for someone I met through my show. I was even briefly engaged to someone I had met over Skype.”

“You were engaged?”

“Yeah.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. Zayn had once been engaged to someone he met through the show? Harry wished he was more surprised by the idea, but the tidbit honestly just made him feel more annoyed. If Zayn had been so receptive to the idea of a relationship then, why wasn’t he receptive now?

“Anyway. The engagement ended because he was insistent that I quit the show before he flew out and we got married. And I — I just couldn’t do it. This is my livelihood. I’m good at this and it makes me happy. It makes me feel sexy and desired and like I’m making a lot of people happy, even if it’s only for the hour or two they are watching me. So my ex gave me an ultimatum — him or the show — and I picked the show. I picked my career and what I’d been doing before I met him. And after that, I swore I wouldn’t go down that path again. I wouldn’t pick someone who made me choose. And everyone else — well. I can’t lie and say that there aren’t feelings in what I do, but even when there are, the idea of me quitting always comes up eventually. Always, always.”

“But I’m not like everyone else,” Harry said. “You’ve said it yourself — I’m different. Hell, I’d go so far as to say I’m fucking special. I know that you get a lot of enjoyment out of this. It’s more than just a job for you, obviously. And I don’t see it as a bad thing, as something seedy and unsavory.”

“You don’t but everyone else around you probably does,” Zayn remarked. “Believe me. What would your mum say if you told her you were talking to a porn star?”

“You’re not a porn star.”

“Your mum won’t know the difference. I get naked and put things in my arse for money. That’s porn enough, wouldn’t you think?”

“Well, what if I ask her?”

Zayn paused, his mouth hanging wide. “What?”

“I dunno what my mum would say if I told her I was talking to a porn star and thinking about taking things further with him,” Harry reasoned. “So how about I just ask her?”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m serious.”

“You want to talk to your mum about us,” Zayn said. “You want to talk to your mum about how you want to fuck a California porn star.”

“Fuck and take to the movies and go biking with in the hills and date,” Harry amended. “But yeah. Why not? I’m serious about this — about you. So I’ll do it if you think it’s important to see how she’d react.”

Zayn was still looking at Harry as though he were mad, but Harry didn’t mind. He already knew that he was absolutely crazy. Crazy for Zayn, this boy who consumed all of his thoughts and made him feel reckless and beautiful. So Harry would do this. He would talk to his mum about the boy he’d fallen in love with over the internet.

How bad could it possibly be?

 

+++

 

Harry wasn’t able to make his way back to Holmes Chapel until the end of the second term. He had five days off until the third and final term of his undergraduate career started, so Harry took the train back home as soon as his mock exams wrapped up. His mum picked him up from the station and Harry let her fuss over him during the drive first to the bakery and then to the house. She was far more chatty than usual, gossiping about the neighbors and discussing some of the shows she had been catching up on. Gemma was in Manchester pursuing her Masters and Robin was in Liverpool for work for the week so Harry understood that his mum probably just craved the companionship, smiling at her fondly when she reached across the console and tugged at a long and wayward strand of his hair.

Anne offered to take Harry out to The Ganges in Sandbach for dinner, but Harry was still anxious about the conversation he wanted to have with her, so he turned down the opportunity for an excellent curry and offered to cook dinner instead. Harry tossed his bags into his old bedroom and poured his mum a glass of red before rummaging around in the kitchen to see what he had to work with. There was a few cuts of chicken breast that Harry knew he could use, so he chopped up and seasoned potatoes and onions to pair with it. It wasn’t world class cuisine, but Anne seemed touched enough by the gesture, her smile going gooey as she lounged against the doorframe, foot kicked out and glass of wine in hand. 

They made their way back to the living room after dinner, Anne sliding off her boots and putting her feet in Harry’s lap. They’d landed on an episode of _Don’t Tell The Bride_ , and Anne was snickering quietly as this episode’s groom completely blundered his way through the wedding planning process. Harry hadn’t intentionally thought of Zayn in a few hours, not since he’d gotten off the train, but he suddenly wondered what it would be like to plan his ceremony with Zayn. It was such a wild, inane, almost illogical thought, but one that skipped through Harry’s mind without any real apprehension. Harry wondered what it meant, that he could consider such an idea so casually. Zayn would probably say he was bonkers and avoid Harry’s texts for a week. And for good reason, probably.

But the idea did spur Harry into action. Harry cleared his throat, gulping when his mum turned to consider him with soft, curious eyes.

“Yes, love?”

“I have something I want to talk to you about, if you don’t mind.”

Anne furrowed her eyebrows but she nodded, grabbing the remote to turn the volume down. “Oh. Yes, of course, dear. Is this about school? I never did ask how your mock exams went.”

“They were fine, Mum,” Harry said, picking at one of the rips in his jeans. “Everything’s fine. My advisor says that I’m on course to graduate with a first.”

His mum smiled that same wide, proud grin that she had on her face when Harry first told her that he’d gotten accepted to UCL. Anne had always emphasized the importance of education, of having something that no one else could take from you. It was why Harry always worked so hard and why he had difficulty with outright disobeying rules. Sure, Harry liked to push boundaries and ask questions, but he wasn’t the type to necessarily jump over fences. Harry appreciated structure, which was probably what drew him to architecture and planning in the first place.

“I knew you would do well at UCL, love,” Anne gushed. “So smart — didn’t I always say you were a bright one? My baby.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry answered, feeling himself flush under his mum’s praise. He knew he should appreciate it now because the rest of this conversation was bound to be surreal and awkward. “As great as it is to talk to you about uni, I — I really need to talk to you about something else. Or. Well. _Someone_ else.”

Anne smirked, sinking back further into the sofa cushions as she shook her head playfully at Harry. “The someone you spent all of Christmas break talking to on your computer?”

Harry lifted a shoulder and expelled a long breath. “Er — yes. Yes.”

“Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Partner?”

“None of those things yet,” Harry admitted. “Zayn — his name is Zayn — he wanted me to talk to you first about some things because — erm. Because our relationship is a little unconventional?”

Harry wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Anne didn’t seem particularly concerned. She was mostly just peering at Harry curiously, the lights from the television reflecting on the wine glass she was still still holding. “Unconventional how? Like — is he some sort of sugar daddy? Like that Ben guy you were seeing so much your first year?”

Harry barked out a laugh. “Oh, God, no. More the other way around, actually.” Harry chewed his lip, rolling the skin in between his teeth. “He does adult entertainment work.”

Anne blinked. “Like — like a porn star?”

“No. He’s a cam model.”

Anne pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I know what that is, love. Is it like — like modeling for something like _Penthouse_ or _Playboy_? You know I don’t keep up with all the new words.”

“Kind of?” Harry answered. “Like — you must know that these days you can see anything you want on the internet. There are some people who like the idea of watching other people.”

“But it’s not porn?”

Harry shook his head. “No, because it’s just him. He’s the only person on the screen. It’s — it’s more like stripping, really, because people can look but can’t touch.”

Anne hummed, her eyes drifting back towards the telly. On screen, the groom appeared to be struggling, had his head in his hands and was mumbling something that Harry couldn’t hear with the volume turned down low. Harry was sure that if he and his mum were attentively watching, they’d be cackling at the poor lad’s plight.

“Why’d your boy — your Zayn — insist that you tell me?”

“He was in a serious relationship before and it ended badly,” Harry replied. “I think his last partner was ashamed of him and what he did? He doesn’t really like to talk about it, but I suppose he’s just trying to avoid that this time.”

Anne nodded, but it seemed like it was more to herself than anything else. “He’s afraid that you’d tell me and I’d react poorly — tell you that you can’t be with someone like that. Or that I’d say that this relationship can’t possibly be real — that he must be leading you on just by the very nature of what he does as a profession.”

Harry would never cease to be amazed by his mum’s thoughtfulness and perceptiveness. “I think so.”

Anne scoffed. She placed her glass on the coffee table before sitting back and reaching over to wind her fingers through Harry’s hair. “You really like this boy.”

It wasn’t a question and they both knew it. “I do.”

“I said it already tonight — you’re the brightest boy I know,” Anne whispered. “If you like this Zayn and you don’t care about what he does for a living, then I don’t either. I don’t understand it and I would rather you avoid doing strange things on the internet until after you graduate, but so long as he’s safe and you are, too, I don't care.”

Harry tilted his head back, grinning when he caught Anne’s eyes. He could feel himself getting a little teary, but he still somehow managed to rasp out a “Thanks, mum.”

“Do you — ” Anne started, but she cut herself off suddenly. Her eyes darted to consider her glass of wine but she seemed to decide that there was no need for it, instead pushing her shoulders back and asking, “Do you actually plan on doing the same thing? This camera stripping thing?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. Took a deep breath. “I dunno,” Harry answered honestly. “Zayn said I would be good at it if I ever decided to. And like — I have thought about it. Never very seriously, but I have. It could be good money.”

“I just want you to know that I would support you if you did,” Anne replied. “I don’t know if I want to look into it too much, but I’m okay with it. I just want you to be happy.”

Harry poked his mum’s thigh, same as he used to do when he was a little boy, wordlessly begging for her attention as she got ready for work in the morning. The gesture did seem to lighten the mood in the room, the tense air dissipating just as soon as it had appeared. Anne swatted at Harry’s hand, tsking, while Harry chortled to himself.

“Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?” Anne asked. “Just about this Zayn of yours?”

“It was important to me that this conversation happened in person,” Harry admitted. “I — I wanted to be able to really gauge your reaction. I like him a lot, mum. More than I’ve ever liked someone before. I dunno what I would’ve done if you weren’t supportive.”

“I trust you,” Anne said simply. “I raised you to the best of my abilities. It was hard and I frequently had to make due with very little, but I have faith in the man you’ve become. You’re so very fair, Harry, and accepting. You haven’t gone down a wrong path yet, and if your Zayn has been hurt in the past — treated poorly by people who didn’t understand — then I think he deserves to have someone like you in his life. Someone who can love him and accept who he is without judgement. That’s all that any of us can ask for, really.”

It was probably the singularly nicest thing Harry’s mum had ever said to him. Harry was probably going to bawl his eyes out the moment he was in his bedroom, alone and cocooned in his childhood bed. “Thanks, mum. You’d like him. He’s really, really amazing.”

“I’m sure he’s very sweet,” Anne replied as she grabbed the remote again and turned the volume back up. “He’d have to be, to have you trained so well already.”

Harry could feel himself go red, but he didn’t dispute his mum’s words. Just like always, she was right. 

And Harry knew it wasn’t necessarily complete approval. His mum didn’t entirely understand what Harry was talking to her about and Harry wasn’t willing to go into all of the details, but she’d done her best to try. That was honestly all Harry could ask for.

 

+++

 

Zayn and Harry’s relationship had morphed quite a bit in the time between the end of second term and the beginning of the third term. Harry assumed that it mostly had to do with his admission of having feelings for Zayn. They were Skyping less regularly, sometimes going a week or more between check-ins, but they still texted fairly regularly. Harry let Zayn know that he was going home for a few days and Zayn sent a few messages that Harry didn’t entirely understand, but Harry tried not to read too much into it. 

Harry arrived back in London the day before third term started and sent Zayn a text the minute he boarded the train asking if he would be available to chat later in the day. Harry was still buzzing from the time he’d spent with his mum — running to the bakery Harry used to work at every morning, taking walks around town, returning home in the evening with plenty of time to make dinner and watch a few hours of mindless telly. It reminded Harry of the weeks of summer break after his first year at UCL, the only recent time in Harry’s academic career where he wasn’t working or studying. Harry used to spend hours just goofing off with his mum, and Harry found that he missed letting her dote on him. He was certainly a mummy’s boy through and through.

Zayn said that he had a few hours in between private shows to talk. Harry arrived at London Euston and stopped off at Tesco’s on the way back to his flat, and then he goofed off for an hour while he waited for Zayn to come online. When Zayn finally did, Harry felt a burst in his chest that reminded him of every single soppy, heart-stopping moment he’d had in his life — having his first kiss pressed up against a tree, asking his first real girlfriend out to prom, the first boy he’d ever fucked. Just seeing Zayn’s name and the little online icon felt like all of those things combined and amplified, and Harry knew he wasn’t even in love with Zayn. Harry didn’t know Zayn enough to love him, but the potential was there and it was so strong that Harry didn’t know how to sort it all out, how to keep himself from screaming it off rooftops and in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

Zayn called and Harry picked up immediately, breathing a sigh of relief when the video finally loaded on both ends. It was about eight in London and around noon in LA — or wherever the fuck Zayn was in California — and Zayn was sitting in the room he typically used for his streams and not his bedroom. Zayn also appeared to be doing his makeup, rubbing something on his face that made his skin look dewy and almost unreal. The combination — that Zayn wasn’t in his bedroom and that he was very clearly distracted — immediately set Harry on edge, made the bubble of relief harden and crystallize into something uglier and harder to bear.

“Hey, babe,” Zayn called, his eyes still considering something off screen. “How was your hols?”

Harry pursed his lips, not that Zayn could tell since he was putting on bloody eyeliner and not even looking at Harry. “They weren’t proper hols, I told you. I only had a few days off to see family.”

“But it went well?

“Fairly well, yeah,” Harry said. “Erm — can you just look at me for a second, love? I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

Zayn threw a questioning look Harry’s way but he did thankfully put his makeup down. “What is it?”

“I talked to my mum,” Harry began hesitantly. “About — well. About you and camming.”

Zayn’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Harry felt that same surge of pride he did whenever he caught Zayn off guard. “Oh, really? I didn’t think you actually would.”

“Said I would, didn’t I? It went really well, though. She said she trusts my judgement. Admitted she didn’t entirely get it but that it wasn’t going to be something she got upset over.”

Zayn was watching Harry, his face flickering through emotions that Harry was too slow to catch. Harry did feel like he saw something like grudging respect there, and then pride, but it was hard to tell with Zayn. Every time Harry felt like he'd gotten a grasp on something, Zayn revealed another layer of his personality that had Harry doubting everything he’d thought he already knew. 

“I’m glad you had that conversation with your mum,” Zayn started. “It sounded like it went well?”

Harry nodded. “It did. I think it was good for both of us.”

Zayn watched Harry for several long moments. Long enough that Harry actually wondered whether the video had frozen. “I wish I could have that same sort of talk with my parents,” Zayn finally said all in rush. Quick like he almost wished Harry didn’t catch the syllables.

And just like that, Harry could feel his face fall and his metaphorical hackles rise. “What?”

“I — ” Zayn picked up his makeup again and began slowly, methodically applying mascara. “I haven’t had the chance to tell them what I do yet. So I just think it would be nice if the conversation went like how it must’ve gone between you and your mum.”

“Wait,” Harry said, holding a hand up while he used the other to run unsteady fingers through his hair. “So I did my part and had an awkward and uncomfortable chat with my mum because you made it sound extremely important to you, and now I find out you’ve never even told your own family? _What the fuck_ , Zayn?”

“No, no, don’t you dare try to claim the moral high ground here,” Zayn hissed, slamming his mascara down on top of his laptop. Harry jolted, surprised by the sudden outburst. “You don’t know my family, and you also don’t know what it’s like to be having the conversation when you’re the one shoving fingers up your arse every night while thousands of people watch.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But I don’t think it’s fair to make it seem like dating you is conditional upon doing something you haven’t even done yourself.”

“I didn’t condition my bloody approval upon you talking to your mum about me! You’re the one who made it a thing in the first place — who was trying to prove a stupid, childish point!”

“Well, I wouldn’t constantly feel the need to prove myself if you just talked to me and let me know what you’re thinking,” Harry countered. “I mean hell — do you even like me at all? Or do you just like the money and the gifts?”

“What?” Zayn squawked, his eyes flashing dangerously. Zayn wore his anger proudly, dangerously, almost like a crown, his beauty swelling, amplified, and overwhelming even like this, even over video chat. “You knew what you were paying for when we first started talking — no matter how fucking pretty you are, I don’t owe you a fucking thing, Harry, and I’m certainly not trying to scam you out of your money.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“My fucking _job_ , Harry!” Zayn snapped. “Or have you forgotten that you were paying me for all of those things? To video chat, for my Snapchat, so that we could text. You paid for the illusion and I’m one of the top cam models for a reason!”

“And so all of this was bullshit?” Harry said. “Just to fucking clarify. Confiding things in me, helping me with my classes, sending me good morning texts, and admitting you were jealous when I slept with someone else — all of that was fake?”

Zayn’s face screwed up and he went strangely stiff. “No. Yes. I mean — God, it’s complicated, Harry. Just leave it.”

“No!” Harry said, yelling it so loudly he startled himself. Zayn similarly looked up sharply, his expression a myriad of emotions that Harry couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Zayn, please. Talk to me. You don’t owe me shit, you’re right, but I really, really need for you to explain this to me. Because I don’t get what’s happening here. I don’t get why you say that it wasn’t all an illusion, why you’ve admitted that sometimes you do get feelings for customers, but you don’t want to be with me — ”

“It’s not as simple as you’re trying to make it,” Zayn interrupted. He was speaking quickly, the syllables in his words running all together. He sounded far more Northern than he typically did during his shows, where he did his best to enunciate clearly and adopt a posh accent that his American customers could understand. “Like even if your mum says she’s cool with it, even if you think you’re falling in love with me or whatever it is that’s going on in your head — how can you even be certain of your feelings? You think I’m attractive and you watch me wank, your body is flooding all sorts of chemicals into your brain every time we get off together. You talk about daydreaming about coming out to California after uni but you’ve never met me and you don’t really know what I’m like in person. I was so bloody attracted to you and wanted you to like me and keep paying me, so I sold you what you wanted — don’t you see how this story is going to end, Haz? It’s going to end with you realizing I’m _not_ that fantasy. That I’m not well-read or particularly nice, that I’m not cocky like The King or classy like Veronica. All you’ll see is that I’m a messy twenty-something with baggage and a job that requires me to be on the computer most of the day. It’s like — a relationship with me would be so fucking difficult and I’ve been down this road two times before. I can’t keep throwing myself full-steam ahead into idealized romantic relationships that don’t pan out. I fucking can’t.”

Harry blinked. He hadn't expected for Zayn to honestly answer him. He’d expected for Zayn to tell him to get over himself. He’d expected for Zayn to slam his laptop lid shut and then text him a few hours later as though nothing was wrong. He hadn’t really expected for Zayn to feel compelled to explain himself and his thought process.

But it was all very logical when Harry thought about it. He’d only been looking at things from his own perspective, so concentrated on how Zayn made him feel special and important and desired. Zayn helped this last year of uni seem tolerable. But there was so much more here than just Harry’s feelings and his struggle with his own self-worth. There were Zayn’s feelings. Zayn, the one who had been down this road before and had been left all alone to deal with the detritus of a relationship. Zayn, the one who carefully safeguarded so much of who he was, and yet still let Harry sneak past his defenses. Zayn, the one who clearly tried so hard to fight against what he’d been feeling, and yet was still good enough, decent enough to try and make his motivations plain.

“I suppose I can never entirely convince you of what I feel,” Harry began hesitantly. It felt like everything was reversed. As though this time Harry was the one talking to a skittish horse. “But I don’t think this is all just based on the weird customer-model dynamic. Like, yeah, it started like that, but we haven’t been talking to each other strictly on those terms for a long time.”

Zayn scoffed, the noise dry and jarring. “You can’t be sure of that, Harry. You honestly — you only saw what I wanted you to see.”

“Yeah,” Harry acknowledged. “But it’s the same for me. It’s the same for anyone when you’re getting to know someone new. You show off a carefully curated depiction of yourself and hope the other person likes it. I agree that it’s weird because I paid you at points to listen to me, but people start relationships with employees — with nannies and tutors and their therapist. It’s unconventional and weird and I’m sure it might be uncomfortable working through it and unpacking everything, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try just because it’s hard work.”

“It’s cute that you think being with me could be like being with a nanny or a therapist,” Zayn murmured. He still seemed distant, his face a portrait of skepticism. “But I’m a fucking cam model. A sex worker, Harry. And you saying that you and your family are hypothetically cool with it really is different than what it could mean in reality when you want to go to the movies but I can’t because I’ve got a private show with a customer. Or when someone comes up to you and awkwardly tries to explain how they watched me get off with a cucumber the night before because someone paid me $300 to do it.”

Harry nodded, acknowledging the point. It was true. Harry didn’t really care what Zayn did during his stream, but he did get annoyed whenever he thought about Zayn spending his precious free time chatting with other people one-on-one. But Harry got annoyed whenever anyone couldn’t carve out time for him. It was always less about what Zayn was doing than about the simple fact that Zayn wasn’t doing it with him. “You’re right, but not about all of it,” Harry said. “I don’t care if people from real life watch you, but I do get jealous when I think about you talking to other guys. But I can deal with that. I’d rather have you and watch you share parts of yourself than not have you at all.”

The hard facade of Zayn’s face seemed to crack, just a little bit. “And what if I decide I want to fully commit to adult entertainment?” Zayn prodded. “What if I don’t go back to school in the next few years — what if I want to do porn instead?”

Harry prodded at the edges of his feelings. He hadn’t really thought about Zayn and another person fucking each other live and in-person, not with thousands of miles and the internet between them. It didn’t make Harry feel extraordinarily upset. Mostly, Harry wondered if any adult entertainment company would be able to find a model good enough to handle Zayn in bed. “I’ll support you whatever you do,” Harry finally answered. “I think you could make a lot of money if that’s what you wanted. I would just ask that you do your best to find a good company and an agent — people who have your best interests at heart and who care about ethics and worker’s rights stuff.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow, but it seemed familiar and teasing, not like the cold looks he had shot at Harry earlier during the conversation. “Harry Styles, champion for sex workers,” he finally snickered. “Where have you been all my life?”

“On the other side of the chat screen,” Harry answered with a smirk. But as quickly as the silly moment arose, it vanished, leaving Zayn and Harry staring at each other on their laptops. “So what does this mean, Z?”

Zayn shook his head, running his fingers through his hair before slapping them against his lap with a low thud. “I dunno,” he answered. “I — there’s a lot here for me to think about. I don’t want to rush anything. I think I might need a few days just to sort my thoughts out. Is — is that okay?”

Harry nodded, perhaps too vigorously. “Yes, of course! However much time you need. And — and it’s perfectly all right if this isn’t what you want to do. Ultimately, your friendship and companionship is what’s most important to me either way.”

Zayn smiled, the twisting of his lips a strange mixture of relief and what looked like nerves. It made something squeeze tight in Harry’s chest. Had Zayn really thought that Harry would drop him entirely if they didn’t end up dating?

“I’ll text you later, babe, okay?” Zayn asked, his voice soft and questioning.

“Yeah,” Harry answered, licking over his lips. “Of course.”

Zayn blew Harry a kiss. Harry caught it with his hand, bringing his palm to sit against his heart. Zayn smiled, small and secretive, and waved before signing off.

 

+++

 

The next few days were absolute torture.

Harry knew he’d been putting on a brave face during his and Zayn’s last conversation. Harry hadn’t wanted Zayn to feel pressured into his decision, even though he obviously wanted Zayn to return and say that he wanted to make a go of it. But as the days went by without any contact from Zayn, Harry could feel his resolve slowly begin to crack. Without Zayn’s texts, without Zayn’s raspy early morning voicemails and their regularly scheduled Skype dates, Harry couldn’t help but realize all of the ways that Zayn had seeped into the nooks and crannies of his life. His absence was an echo Harry heard everywhere, and Harry felt as though he would burst if he didn’t receive some sort of acknowledgement from Zayn soon.

But Harry found a way to push through his feelings, throwing back his shoulders and just getting on with it the way he’d always seen his mother do. He headed to libraries and cafes in order to change up his scenery a bit, get some revising in without boring his eyes into his bed and thinking about all of the hours he'd spent in it chatting with Zayn. He met up with some of his mates outside of class instead of politely declining their offers to grab a bite or join them at a party over the weekend. Harry even briefly considered trying to pick up this wealthy American boy from one of his classes named Xander, just out of sheer boredom, but Harry was so wracked by guilt and horror at the idea of stepping out on Zayn that Harry quickly shut down that entire train of thought.

But the break from each other was good, even if Harry still spent more time thinking about Zayn than not. He finished up essays that weren’t due for another week and actually completed all of his reading. He Skyped his mum and talked to her about his rapidly approaching commencement. He calculated his grades and wondered if he would actually pull off graduating with a first. He thought about the world that existed beyond the sweet boy that lived in his laptop, and as the trees started to bloom again and the drizzle of spring gradually gave way to clearer skies and muggier weather, Harry breathed in summer and still thought of Zayn.

 

+++

 

It was going on a week and a half when Harry was lurking The King’s social media accounts while walking back home from one of his classes. Zayn didn’t have social media sites that were separate from camming, and so when Harry was feeling particularly lonesome and homesick, he trolled through The King’s pictures and posts searching for any indication that Zayn was thinking about Harry and going to get in contact with him soon.

Harry just happened to be scrolling through Zayn’s Twitter when a new tweet pinged at the top of the app. Harry’s fingers spasmed as he tried to refresh the page, and he bit at his lip as he read the brief notification.

“Not feeling too well today,” the tweet started. “Don’t want to half-ass it! Will be back with an amazing show for you all next week.”

Harry was pulling up his messages and typing away before he even thought about it, before he could even remember that he was waiting for Zayn to get in contact with him first and that this text would let Zayn know that Harry was lurking on his Twitter. “Are you all right, babe? Why’d you cancel your show?”

The response came back just as fast: “Skype, FaceTime, or just stay here on Whatsapp?”

Harry was still walking across campus and was close enough to the library to be picking up its WiFi, so Harry just opted for Skype this go around. Zayn picked up the call almost immediately, smiling sleepily at the screen. He looked like he was on his laptop.

“Hey, babe,” Zayn murmured groggily. “Where are you?”

“Still on campus,” Harry answered shortly. “You all right? What’s going on? Why’d you cancel your show?”

Zayn continued to grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m good, really good.”

“But your tweet — ”

Zayn scoffed. “I just didn’t feel like camming today, especially because I already spent all of yesterday on camera. I’m not sick and I don’t feel bad — I’m just exhausted.”

Harry almost had to stop himself from walking into a tree. “On camera all day? Doing what?”

“I had a meeting with this small independent porn company in San Francisco,” Zayn said all in a rush. “They sent some stuff over a few weeks ago and I had my law school friend look over it to make sure everything was legit. That’s — that’s why I asked you all those questions when we talked last, and also why I haven’t had the time to Skype you. I didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t work out, but they’re honestly amazing, Harry. It’s not all gangbangs and cum shots. They’re artsy, eccentric. Big on aesthetic and performer creativity. On performer comfort and worker’s rights. I think you’d like it.”

It took Harry a few moments to put all of the pieces together, and when he finally did, he decided it might be best to just sit down on a bench and really _listen_ to what Zayn was saying. This wasn’t a conversation he could have strolling across campus, only half paying attention. “You shot a hardcore scene today?”

“No,” Zayn laughed. “Not like that at least — there wasn’t anyone else on screen with me. It was just me goofing off on camera like I do for my cam shows. Chasing what felt good, what felt right, but without having to worry about a damn comments section barking out orders and asking for me to slather my dick with sour cream. I watched some of the raw footage back and it’s great, Harry. Really. I — I think it’s a good compromise on what we’d talked about. I get to explore adult entertainment more and can keep camming on the side, but I’m not doing anything I don’t feel comfortable with. And that you don’t feel comfortable with, either.”

Harry frowned, hoping he had heard Zayn right. “That I don’t?”

Zayn nodded, grabbing his laptop and pulling it closer so that it was resting on his chest. Like this, Harry could almost imagine that they were in bed together or like they were any other long distance couple, seeking connection even though they were approximately 8,000 kilometers apart. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Zayn said. “And about how much I like you. Harry, there are so many people I’ve met doing this work. I’ve been able to cultivate so many friendships and forge so many smaller connections and for that I’m really grateful. But there _is_ something special here between the two of us. I didn’t want to think about it too hard because it’s really hard to gauge when people like you for you, and I thought I might ruin it, that my job might or that one of us would prove to be the opposite of what we said we were. And I know it’s crazy, it really is, but I do feel like I know you. I fantasize about bringing you out to California, too. When something big happens during the day, you’re the first person I tell. I stay up late talking to you. And that — that says something. I don’t want to quit what I’m doing. I make great money and I do really value the connections I’ve made online. I’m _good_ at this. At being on for people and remembering their stories and trying to find little ways to improve their day because it’s hard out there in the real world. But I want to have you, too. Nothing makes me happier than you do. And I know that sounds selfish, to want both, but. That’s where I am right now. And I think I would very much like to date you — to have you be mine and to be yours. To call you my boyfriend and change your name in my phone to something silly and sappy. To tweet about you and bring you out to where I’m staying and try to convince you to shoot a scene with me or even just have you man the camera, and — and everything in between.”

Harry was gripping the sides of his phone so hard he was worried the cheap plastic cover was going to cut his fingers. “You — you feel that way?” Harry asked dazedly. “You really want to be my boyfriend?”

“If you’d have me,” Zayn answered, shrugging jerkily. “I mean — if that option is still on the table? I know it might not be, not when I flipped out on you like that before.”

Harry laughed wetly, rubbing at his eyes in a futile attempt to not cry. “Of course it’s still on the table. Don’t be a knob.”

Zayn’s resulting grin was blinding and full of relief. Harry couldn’t believe someone so smart and thoughtful wanted anything to do with him. Zayn was far too good for Harry. “I didn’t want to presume!”

Harry smiled, blinking through tears in order to commit the beauty of Zayn — of his _boyfriend_ — to memory. His California tanned skin. His amber eyes. The smile that Harry never saw when Zayn was camming, the smile that only fully bloomed when he was talking to Harry. The King was an interesting person, same as Veronica. But Harry had Zayn, the twenty-two year old boy who waxed poetic about Captain America and cared about Harry enough that he actually looked into weird, artsy adult entertainment companies as a way to have his work and his boy at the same time.

“I’m going home and buying a plane ticket immediately,” Harry said. “Which airport — ?”

“San Diego,” Zayn answered quickly. “I live in San Diego.”

Harry beamed, biting at his bottom lip. “Then San Diego it is.”

 

+++

 

San Diego was beautiful.

Harry had been to the States a few times before, but never to California. The minute he stepped outside of the airport, carry on slung over his shoulder, and felt the sun on his face, all of the nerves, anxiety, and stress from the last year seeped out of his pores.

He was a uni graduate — and with a first, no less. He had already sent his CV out to a handful of promising employers and had heard back from a few, asking him to come out for an interview. But it was hard to think about working in drizzling, overcast London when his boyfriend was living in the Golden State, shyly discussing what it meant to be long distance lovers.

The idea of moving in together hadn’t come up yet, at least not explicitly. But Harry did think about it. Quite frequently, actually.

So this trip to San Diego was important. It would determine whether or not Harry would make the same choice Zayn once did — to follow his heart to California and try to make a life in the States.

Harry and Zayn had chatted off and on during the long eleven hour flight from London to Los Angeles, but there was no Wi-Fi on Harry’s second flight from LAX to San Diego International so Harry had to sit with his own thoughts for the last hour of his travels. Right before he logged off his computer, though, Zayn had sent him a message, just letting him know that he would be waiting for Harry at the pick-ups right outside the terminal.

And so Harry scanned the outside of the San Diego airport, fingers sweaty where they were wrapped around the handle of his carry on. There was one long, tense moment where Harry wondered what would happen if Zayn didn’t ever pick him up — if Zayn chickened out of this entire thing and left Harry to fend for himself for seven days. The thought sent pure white terror dancing down Harry’s spine, made him bite down on his tongue, but then Harry caught sight of dark hair and Ray-Bans standing near a dusty Toyota, and the whole world righted itself.

It felt like the end of a movie. Because Harry and Zayn smiled at each other at the same time, soft and privately. Harry would’ve run if his damn bag wasn’t so heavy, and Zayn was ambling forward as quickly as his cool demeanor probably allowed. But as it were, they met each other right next to a garbage bin and Harry threw his bag onto the ground before sweeping Zayn into a hug and feeling something like a sob rip out of his body once he buried his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn smelled _good_. Like pricey aftershave, the beach, and something else, something dark, musky, and sensual. He was thin but lean, wiry, and strong where he squeezed around Harry’s middle. His hair was soft to the touch when Harry tentatively brought a hand to card through it, the strands thick and velvety, curling at the top of his neck. His eyes were shockingly hazel, like chips of amber, and his lips were pillowy soft when they pulled back enough to smile at each other, leaning in to kiss for the first time.

Zayn even tasted good, like Big Red bubble gum.

Harry sank into the kiss, knees almost buckling. He fought against the urge to kick his leg up in the air, just like an Old Hollywood starlet.

When they pulled away, Zayn brought his forehead to knock against Harry’s lightly. He brought exploratory fingers to Harry’s face, running the pads of his pointer finger against the sweep of Harry’s cheekbones, down the length of his nose. “You’re real,” he murmured. “You’re here. You’re even prettier in person.”

“I am here,” Harry answered, leaning forward to peck at Zayn’s lips again. He’d dreamed about it so much, what it would be like to touch Zayn in person, and none of his fantasies had ever measured up to the reality, to this moment. “I’m here and you’re real. You’re so fucking fit and you came here and picked me up from the airport and everything.”

“I did, although I can’t drive,” Zayn acknowledged sheepishly. God, even shrugging looked like high art, the movement sending the sleeve of Zayn’s top sliding off his shoulders. Harry couldn’t believe his luck, grasping one of Zayn’s hands and squeezing it just to remind himself that this boy was real. “I bribed my friend to chauffeur us back to mine. That’s his Toyota.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” 

“Louis,” Zayn answered. “Although you kind of know him — he’s Tommo, the guy who sits in my shows and prompts things sometimes. He’s great. He monitors the chats for weirdos and helps me come up with new formatting ideas. He used to do porn in the Valley but he moved here to San Diego when his baby was born.”

Harry hummed, leaning forward once more to bop his nose against Zayn’s. When Harry drew back, Zayn was smiling at him so wide his eyes were nothing more than two slices of sunshine in his face. “Well, I like anyone you like, babe.”

“‘Course you do,” Zayn replied cheekily. “You ready to go? Ready to head back to mine?”

“Never been more ready before in my life,” Harry answered. 

And they should’ve got moving, but Harry insisted upon squeezing in a few more kisses first.

 

+++

 

Zayn didn’t actually live in San Diego proper, instead renting a condo a few blocks away from the Pacific Ocean in Imperial Beach. Louis dropped them off outside the gated community, grinning knowingly and promising that he would come back in a few days after the honeymoon period had dimmed a bit.

The complex was nice. It had a pool and Zayn said there was plenty of parking, not that either of these things really meant anything to him. Zayn led them into the flat, and Harry left his things right against the door while Zayn led him on a brief tour. The living room was decently sized, with a secondhand sofa, a flat screen television, and several different gaming systems. The kitchen had marble countertops and stainless steel appliances, but Zayn sheepishly admitted that he didn’t cook very frequently. The bathroom was small but neat with a tiny walk-in shower. Harry blinked confusedly at a pair of fake eyelashes and a tube of mascara sitting on the sink, only remembering Zayn’s dalliances with drag once they had turned off the lights and made their way out of the room.

The two bedrooms were where Harry was suddenly and viscerally reminded about Zayn’s profession.

Harry recognized the master bedroom from their private chats. Zayn had a ridiculously large California king bed and a stash of paperbacks and comics pushed against a wall decorated with two posters, one for _Enter the Dragon_ and the other for _Scarface_. There was an umbrella light in another corner and all throughout the room Zayn had scattered personal sex toys, clearly comfortable leaving them out in the open instead of stashing them away in drawers and cabinets.

The second bedroom was the room Zayn conducted his shows from. A bed was pushed against one wall, and then directly facing it on a desk were the camera, an iMac, a television, a mirror, two floor lights, and several desk lights. There was also a small cabinet, shoved up next to some of the lights almost like an afterthought. Harry nodded toward it and Zayn shrugged, leaning against the doorframe as Harry poked through the contents, smirking at the collection of underwear, toys, and personal lubricants. Harry didn’t even know it was possible for one person to own so many dildos.

Minus the cam room, Zayn’s condo seemed like any other twenty-something’s crash pad. Things were fairly neat and Zayn seemed to take a great deal of pride in his belongings, even the things he had come across secondhand. Harry had always known Zayn to be practical, but walking through his home felt something like traversing through Zayn’s brain. It was one thing to glean tidbits on camera and something else entirely to be here with Zayn, listening as he showed Harry some of his favorite comics and pointed out ticket stubs from concerts he’d gone to in San Diego.

 

They ended up in Zayn’s bedroom, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Harry’s laptop between them. Harry had let Zayn pick out a documentary on Netflix. Harry had seen it before, so he’d given up any pretense of watching the film and instead let his eyes dance over Zayn’s countenance, same as it had a million times before during their chats. Harry felt in awe of Zayn’s long, dark eyelashes, the slope of his nose and the rosy pinkness of his lips. Harry wanted to touch, to read his flesh like Braille and commit his every centimeter of skin to sense memory, and so he did, reaching out and dancing his thumb over one bushy eyebrow. Zayn scrunched his face and turned toward Harry, exhaling long and slow when Harry swept his digit down the bank of Zayn’s forehead. Harry paused when his finger curved over the tip of Zayn’s nose, resting above his upper lip, unsure as to his next move, but Zayn took the initiative for him, shutting the laptop lid and leaning into Harry with a kiss.

Harry wondered if it was normal to hear birdsong and feel a swooping in his belly every time he kissed his boyfriend. He’d certainly never felt like this before.

“God, I want you,” Zayn gasped out against Harry’s lips. “I want you so badly, Haz.”

Harry blinked, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s shoulders and massaging the skin behind his ears while Zayn’s eyes drifted closed. “You — do you wanna — ?”

Zayn nodded, the fuzzy bristles of his beard brushing against Harry’s cheek. “Yeah, please, Harry.”

Harry wanted both to take his time with this, to make their first intimate moments together last as long as possible, and to devour Zayn entirely, to make him shake and come, ruin his calm demeanor with his fingers and cock. Zayn seemed similarly conflicted, his tongue sure and wicked where it plunged into Harry’s mouth, but his fingers still shook as he laid Harry’s laptop on the floor and undid the buttons of Harry’s denim, sliding the material down Harry’s thighs.

Having Zayn hot and heavy and real between his legs was leaps and bounds more overwhelming than any of Harry’s nighttime dreams or inappropriate daytime fantasies. Zayn bunched up Harry’s shirt, pushing it upward with one hand, and kissed over his stomach, lips brushing against the inky lines of tattoos and centimeters of untanned skin. Harry clenched his hands in fists, breathing sharp and uneven when Zayn smirked at him and avoided the bulge in his pants to instead run sure, ticklish fingers over the inside of Harry’s thighs.

Harry had already made a complete mess of himself by the time Zayn deigned to remove Harry’s briefs, pulling the fabric off and then tossing it somewhere into the corner of the room. Harry was sure he looked a sight — lips bitten red, his shirt still on but completely wrinkled, and his cock wet and hard against his hip. Zayn drank in the sight, his own eyes dark and hungry, before he wrapped his hand around Harry’s dick and swallowed him down on a fluttery-eyed moan.

Just like most things Zayn did, the blowjob was messy, unhurried, and completely on his own terms. Harry forced his eyes open, moaning loud and unabashed as Zayn sucked him and worked a tentative spit-slick finger into Harry’s hole.

Zayn pulled off just as Harry’s thighs began to tremble, his balls tightening up threateningly. Harry whined, thumping his head against the bed, but Zayn only smiled with his finger still up Harry’s arse, looking smarmy and pleased with himself.

“Can I fuck you?” Zayn asked, nipping against the inside of Harry’s thigh. His voice was hoarse, almost completely wrecked. Harry wondered if Zayn would be able to do one of his shows tomorrow or if Harry’s cock had already completely ruined his throat, had made it too obvious what Zayn had been up to the night before.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Zayn spat onto his fingers and worked another one into Harry, who hummed against the intrusion. Harry closed his eyes as he felt waves of pleasure work over him, bringing his hands up to his mouth to muffle the moans that were still flowing unbidden from his mouth. He felt so good, felt like Zayn was working him into a frenzy and they hadn’t even fucked all the ways Harry needed to yet.

“Zayn,” Harry gasped. “Zayn, please, babe. I need you, don’t wanna — ”

“Yeah,” Zayn murmured, twisting his fingers out of Harry’s hole. Harry whimpered at the loss but forced his eyes open again as he heard the rip of foil. Zayn had somehow managed to discard all of his clothes while Harry wasn’t looking. He was just as perfect as he’d been on camera, his tattoos glistening under a thin layer of sweat and his cock thick and cut, bobbing up against his stomach with every movement. Harry tossed off his own shirt and brought a hand to wank himself as Zayn rolled the latex over his dick and drizzled lube onto his fingers.

“How do you want it, babe?” Zayn asked, jacking himself with sticky fingers and looking like the most wicked wet dream Harry had ever had. “Hands and knees?”

Harry shook his head. “No, want to see you.”

Zayn nodded, crouching down between Harry’s thighs. Zayn grabbed one of Harry’s legs and hitched it up over his hip, his eyes catching Harry’s as he positioned himself and began to push in.

Harry gasped, his hands immediately searching for something to hold onto, grasping at the air. Zayn grunted, “You can scratch me, I don’t mind,” and Harry bit at his lip, nodding as he brought a hand to dig his fingernails into Zayn’s back.

It was slow and deep, felt more intimate than what Harry would’ve ever expected. Hell, Harry had anticipated fucking Zayn in the airport bathroom or blowing him along the highway. Something frenzied, driven entirely by the passionate attraction that had been fueling their conversations for nearly a year. Harry hadn’t expected for them to knock their foreheads together, Zayn’s sweat dripping down Harry’s nose. Harry hadn’t expected to learn that there was a freckle in Zayn’s eye, or for him to swear underneath his breath when Zayn snaked his fingers through Harry’s hair and tugged. Harry hadn’t been expecting the moan that spilled from Zayn’s lips when Harry licked over his earlobe, tugging the flesh gently with his teeth. And Harry certainly hadn’t expected for Zayn to close his eyes and actually cry when he buried himself deep inside of Harry and came.

Zayn was trembling when he pulled out and tossed his condom into a bin by the side of the bed, so Harry wound his fingers through Zayn’s hair and held him close, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he could find — lips, the tip of Zayn’s nose, the juncture between chin and neck.

It took a few minutes for Zayn’s breathing to approximate something like normal, but when he did, he leered up at Harry, eyes darting between Harry’s face and his hard cock. “I want to use a toy on you,” Zayn said. “Can I fuck you with a vibrator?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically, his sweaty strands slapping into his face. “Yes.”

Zayn giggled and dashed across the room, grabbing a long, thick personal massager. A Magic Wand. Harry remembered seeing one in his ex-girlfriend’s bedroom, but he’d never got to watch her use it. Zayn made his way back over to the bed, plugging the massager into an outlet behind the bed frame.

“You want to use that on me?” Harry asked. “How?”

“Give me your hand,” Zayn said. Harry did as instructed, thrusting his hand into Zayn’s lap. Zaynturned the switch on, the massager thrumming to life. Zayn raised an eyebrow as he placed the Magic Wand in Harry’s palm and Harry felt a shiver go through his body at the strong vibrations kicking up from the toy. “And that’s just the low setting,” Zayn added. 

“How come I’ve never seen you use that during the show?” Harry asked as Zayn turned the Magic Wand back off.

“Because it makes me come in like five seconds and that’s not a whole lot of fun for my viewers,” Zayn admitted. “I think it’ll be a whole lot of fun for you, though.”

“Five seconds,” Harry repeated. “It makes you come that fast? How?”

“Lay back and I’ll show you.”

Harry felt expectation rise up in his stomach when he did as he was told, making himself comfortable against Zayn’s pillows. Zayn settled over Harry with the Magic Wand, grinning maniacally, but he turned the massager back on, pressing it experimentally first against Harry’s thighs, and then along his shaft.

“Fuck,” Harry gasped, leaning forward to grasp Zayn’s hip. It was — Harry was not sure he had ever encountered this particular feeling before. It felt mind-bogglingly good, sinfully good, like the whole world had been created solely for Harry’s pleasure and he was a fool not to take advantage of it. The vibrations echoed from his cock outward and his body felt like it didn’t know what to do with the sensations, tensing up against it. He closed his eyes, grunting and flexing his feet and scratching against Zayn’s hip, and then he was coming, his thighs jerking as his orgasm poured out of him laughably fast. It probably did take only five seconds.

Zayn turned the massager off, unplugging it from the wall and laying it on the bed. Harry tried to remember how to breathe again, throwing his arm over his eyes and swearing under his breath.

“I’ve wanted to do that to you ever since I saw the toys you had in your drawer,” Zayn explained, poking Harry’s side. “I couldn’t believe you didn’t have one.”

“Well now I can’t believe it either,” Harry wheezed. He still had his arm draped over his eyes. “What was that, Zayn? Oh my God. Fucking hell.”

Zayn laughed, standing up and leaving the room. When he returned, it was with a damp flannel. He wiped down Harry’s stomach and the inside of his thighs before pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead. He made to pull away but Harry whined and held onto his wrist, blinking sleepily at him.

“Come cuddle with me?”

“‘Course, babe.”

And Zayn threw the flannel onto his bedside table and curled onto the mattress beside Harry, only chuckling lowly when Harry curled onto his side and wrapped Zayn’s arm around his waist. 

 

+++

 

When Harry finally stirred again, the sun was still high in the sky. Harry blinked against the light and moved to stretch before suddenly remembering where he was and who he was with. When Harry twisted around in bed, it was to the image of Zayn slumbering beside him, puffing out low and even breaths against Harry’s chest. Their limbs were completely wrapped together, calves entwined, and Zayn’s arm was draped across Harry’s waist. Zayn looked young and delicate, his hair shockingly dark where it cascaded against Harry’s skin. Harry could only stare at him, feeling fondness swell in his lungs when Zayn eventually fluttered awake, his own smile sweet and dewy when his eyes met Harry’s. They stared at each other for what was probably an ungodly amount of time, grinning and communicating volumes without uttering a single word.

“What time is it?” Zayn finally rumbled, rubbing his eyes and letting his fingertips skitter across Harry’s ribcage.

“About half-six. Did you want to go out for dinner?”

Zayn hummed, digging his fingers into the meat of Harry’s hips and dragging him impossibly closer. “Yeah. There’s this amazing Japanese restaurant in Chula Vista I want you to try. We can call an Uber.”

“We should probably really talk now, though, right?” Harry asked, propping his head up on his hand. “Like — really nail down what all of _this_ means?”

Zayn looked hesitant, biting his bottom lip and breathing quicker, but he nodded — jerky, but it was still a nod. Harry couldn’t believe his eyes could look so wondrous underneath the hazy beach sun filtering through the blinds. “Yeah, no, you’re right. Do you — should we go for a walk? Head out to the beach before dinner, maybe?”

Harry nodded, bringing his fingers to tangle at the hair at the nape of Zayn’s neck. Zayn arched into Harry’s touch and Harry had to fight against the thrum of arousal reverberating through his body. “Yes, that sounds good. Shower first?”

Zayn pressed his lips to Harry’s as an answer and Harry managed to only loose himself in the press of skin and the slide of tongue for only twenty minutes.

 

+++

 

Harry had never put his feet into the Pacific Ocean before, so he removed his boots, holding them in his hand and making his way through the warm sand. The beach wasn’t heavily populated. There were a handful of other couples and families taking a stroll, and a few teenagers in wetsuits sitting out on their boards, but Harry and Zayn were essentially alone.

Harry stood along the shore and took a moment to marvel over how he was in California’s southernmost beach city staring at the rippling waves of the world’s largest ocean. He’d never been so far away from his mum before and from his home in Cheshire. But everything Harry had seen of California to this point was beautiful. Harry could understand why it had inspired so many songs and movies, why Zayn had followed someone out here and loved it enough to stay.

“You wanted to talk about us, then?” Zayn prompted once Harry made his way back from the edge of the crashing waves. “About what all of this means and what we’re doing?”

Harry nodded and fell into step beside Zayn as they made their way back to the boardwalk. “I just want to make it very clear that I’m glad to be here with you. I — this afternoon was amazing, Zayn.”

Zayn smiled knowingly, knocking his shoulder against Harry’s. “You had fun?”

“As much as you did, I’m sure,” Harry replied. “We — I think we can continue having a lot of fun together.” Harry cleared his throat and grabbed Zayn’s wrist, squeezing him lightly. Zayn came to a stop, his countenance carefully blank as he gazed at Harry. “I want to keep having fun with you,” Harry murmured. “And I want to be very clear that I don’t want you to quit what you’re doing. I respect that adult entertainment is your profession and your passion, and I won’t ever ask you to quit what you’re doing. That would be _tremendously_ hypocritical of me.”

Zayn smiled, a lopsided watery thing that Harry wanted to scoop up and defend. “Thanks, Haz.”

“The idea of you fucking other people does make me feel a little uncomfortable,” Harry continued. “Like — it has nothing to do with a misguided sense of morality. I don’t like that I will have to share you with other people. I’m selfish and I want you all to myself. But I also understand that’s what I’ve signed up for — that I’m going to have to learn how to share.”

“I don’t want you to feel as though that’s an albatross you have to carry, though,” Zayn admitted. “As though it’s something you have to stoically endure to be with me. I want you to get to a point where you’re comfortable with it — or at least indifferent. Because honestly, Harry, at the end of the day, I’m only a fantasy for everyone else. Someone they can spend a few hours with in search of a greater connection. But you get _everything_ else. Cuddles in the morning. Netflix. Blowjobs in the shower. Lots and lots of toys. Fuck, a whole myriad of experiences in between.”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “And I want to get a point where I’m comfortable with everything, too. But it does make me have some questions about us and monogamy.” Harry exhaled a long breath. He looked out at the pier, out at the swelling waves and the endless blue sky. Harry wondered if whales ever swam through this slice of ocean. “Like, are we exclusive to each other, minus what you do on cam? Or is this by default an open relationship?”

The sun was finally starting to set and Harry swore he could see the creeping of dust in Zayn’s eyes. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else — you know I haven’t. And I don’t particularly want to sleep with anyone else. Do you?”

Harry shook his head. “No. But what about that new porn company you’re working with? Are you going to have sex with people on there? Like — does that count?”

Zayn took a moment to respond. “To be completely honest with you, I haven’t really planned on doing hardcore scenes with another performer,” he answered. “I don’t — I thought it might be something I’d want to do because it seemed like a natural progression. But I don’t need to — I don’t want to. At least not right now.”

Harry would hate to admit it, especially because he knew he would have supported Zayn regardless of the choice he made, but internally he breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’re not hooking up with anyone on camera. And I’m not going to be dating anyone else either.”

“I’d like for us to be exclusive, yeah,” Zayn replied. “Like — cam modeling is work. It can be fun, but at the end of the day it’s what I’m paid to do. So I don’t see it as stepping outside of the bounds of a relationship and I don’t think you should think of it that way, either.”

“We’re exclusive then?”

Zayn smiled, shaking his head at Harry fondly. “Yes, you knob. I’m only sleeping with you and you’re only sleeping with me.”

“Will you be telling your customers you’re in a relationship then?”

Zayn crooked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes as he looked off into the sunset. Concentrated like this, he looked like some sort of Renaissance sculpture, like perfection carvedinto stone and immortalized. “I think I will, yeah,” Zayn said. “I probably won’t all at once, but I’ve already dropped hints that I was talking to someone.”

“Will that affect your shows at all? Them knowing that you’ve got a boyfriend?”

Zayn pulled a face and shook his head. “Nah. A lot of them get off on that even more — kind of like it’s an infidelity thing? Like it makes them feel accomplished? I dunno. But I doubt it’ll make a difference in my income or anything like that. Mostly I think I’ll just get requests to bring you on camera. And that offer is always on the table, of course. We’d split our earnings.”

Harry barked out a laugh. They’d resumed walking and were almost back to the sidewalk. Zayn led them over to a bench and pulled out his iPhone, calling up a car for them. Harry watched the movement of his fingers and thought about how they felt cradling his face, stroking his ribs. Wrapping around his cock. Zayn was right. All of those other customers had to content themselves with wondering what it felt like to be with The King, and they could purchase their way into strengthening the fantasy, but ultimately Harry was the one who would get swept up in Zayn’s arms at the airport, the one who had woken up to his smile and was on his way to a dinner date. Theirs was a love story told all out of order, but Harry couldn’t help but think it was the best one he’d ever heard.

“Maybe one day I’ll be up for it,” Harry said. “With patient coaching from The King, of course.”

Zayn tilted his head up to beam at Harry like a child. “I’d never steer you wrong, babe.”

Harry leaned in to peck Zayn’s lips and brushed the pad of his thumb against Zayn’s cheekbones. Zayn hummed, another one of his tunes that Harry never fucking recognized, but Harry didn’t care, just leaned in again to see if he could taste the symphony on Zayn’s tongue.

 

+++

 

_One Year Later_

 

“Hello everyone!” Zayn said, grinning at the camera and doing his familiar introductory wave. “I’m glad you all came here to join me for a very special edition of Thursday Book Club. Today I’m joined by none other than my boyfriend, Mr. Ugly Gold Boots — ”

“Heyyyy,” Harry interrupted, shouldering Zayn playfully. “You told me you weren’t going to say that in front of everyone.”

Zayn grinned, darting forward and pecking Harry quickly. “I did say that, but I lied,” Zayn said. “Anyway. This is my boyfriend, Pretty Young Thing. Give ‘em a wave, babe.”

Harry dutifully did as he was instructed, waving in pageant queen fashion while Zayn snickered. “If you all think that my performer name is presumptuous, blame The King, as he was the one who came up with it.”

“Your performance name is just a statement of facts,” Zayn replied haughtily. “You are pretty and you are indeed a young thing. Isn’t he, lads?”

Harry let his eyes wander over to consider the computer screen. Even after all this time, Harry still couldn’t entirely understand how Zayn was able to do it — perform, remain friendly, and keep an eye on the comment section at the same time time. Harry had a theory that Zayn was superhuman and the more time they spent together, the surer Harry was in this assertion. And they’d certainly spent a fair amount of time in each other’s pockets over the past year.

Harry returned to London after his gorgeous week with Zayn in California, but they continued to talk every day, finding times to Skype and Snapchat even as Zayn’s career somehow managed to become even more demanding and time-consuming. Zayn was driven and ambitious though, and his first few scenes with that small artsy company had all generated a significant amount of buzz. He’d had to hire on an agent and a manager, too, particularly once he started getting requests to talk at Adult Expos and come down to gay bars to host and even occasionally perform as Veronica. Zayn was also in talks to write a few essays about his experiences as a cam model. Harry often had difficulty keeping up with it all, but he was proud of his boyfriend and proud that Zayn was using his platform and his influence to talk about greater safety and transparency within the adult entertainment industry and other things that were important to him.

After they’d been dating for six months, Zayn flew back to the UK to meet up with his family for a few days and talk to them about his career. Apparently a friend of an uncle had recognized Zayn online, and his parents were upset that Zayn hadn’t already told them about it. Ultimately, everything turned out fine, particularly after Zayn promised to get Asa Akira’s autograph for one of his cousins. 

Zayn and Harry then drove up to Cheshire so Zayn could meet his parents. It was a little awkward — Harry had to explain what Zayn did all over again to Gemma and his stepdad, Robin — but Anne was nothing but sweet and understanding throughout the brief trip. Robin asked some weird questions about gay sex that made Harry feel uncomfortable, but Zayn handled the entire situation like a pro, and as they were driving back down to London, Harry couldn't help but think that this was the guy he wanted to be with, really and truly, in every way that mattered.

So as soon as they arrived back in London, Harry sat cross-legged on his bed and bought a one-way plane ticket to California while Zayn attempted to set up enough lights in Harry’s bedroom to do a show. It was an impulsive decision, a reckless one that made all of his mates scratch their heads and frown and which caused his mum to have a long conversation with him about his long term life goals, but Zayn wanted Harry there with him and Harry wanted to be wherever Zayn was. And so Harry packed up his bags, gave his landlord his key, and didn’t look back.

Harry and Zayn lived outside of San Diego for a few weeks before they found a condo in Downtown Los Angeles to move into. Harry landed a good desk job at a consulting firm that worked with the city, and Zayn kept up with everything else he’d been juggling. It was nice albeit completely weird and nontraditional, the fact that Harry could come home from work and not know whether Zayn would be gearing up for a stream, primping before a drag appearance, or leaving for San Francisco to shoot a scene.

Sometimes things were hard. People made weird faces when they heard what Zayn did and Harry had a hard time making friends he could trust in LA. And on occasion Harry would remember that he and Zayn had done so much of their relationship out of order, and they would have squabbles about completely ridiculous things like Zayn’s penchant for doodling over everything in their condo and Harry’s flirtatious nature. Sometimes they still had difficulty communicating and Zayn would freeze Harry out or Harry would walk around Downtown for an hour or more without telling Zayn where he’d gone. But then they’d blow off their steam and _talk_ , drive out to Santa Monica or have dinner at the Farmer’s Market, head out to the movies and go for hikes out by the Hollywood hills, doing all of the things Harry said he’d wanted to do with Zayn.

It honestly hadn’t felt like much of a leap for Harry to suggest one day over brunch at Poppy + Rose that he join Zayn on camera.

And now here they were.

The comment box had been jumping quickly ever since they’d loaded up the show, but Harry was a quick enough reader to catch bits and snatches:

 

“Ur bf is so hawt” 

“$25 to see his cock =P”

“But will he put sour cream on his dick though?!”

 

The steady stream of praise made Harry squirm in his seat, a blush working his way over his face. This only generated another deluge of commentary, people gushing over how adorable Harry was and how much they were willing to pay to watch Zayn ruin him.

“See, babe?” Zayn said, nuzzling against Harry’s neck. “They think you’re well fit, as they should. And as a reward for recognizing your beauty, we’re going to treat these very lovely and very loyal viewers, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “So get those tips ready, lads. Because for this very special edition of Thursday Book Club, The King here is going to summarize the entire _Harry Potter_ series to the best of his abilities while I fuck him.”

“You’ve got to pay to play — ”

“And we need cash to come,” Harry finished with a flourish. “So. How about it? Who’s in?”

Harry fought down his own giddy laugh as the tips began to roll in.

Harry could get used to this. To the compliments from strangers, to the cash, to sharing this space with Zayn. The whole camming thing was thrilling and weird and yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world because Harry had Zayn at his side — intelligent, gorgeous, sweet, reflective Zayn.

And so long as Harry had Zayn, he could _definitely_ get used to all of this.

 


End file.
